Practice Makes Perfect
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Mark finally comes out to his friends, but he's still a little nervous about this whole gay thing. Does he even know HOW to be gay? The bohos, especially Roger, decide to help him out. Funny, slashy. Eventual Mark/Roger.
1. Not So Hypothetically

**A/N: Yes. I know. I'm horrible. I'm sorry. But... I found it and now I just want to write it so bad! So I can just put out this first chapter and see if people like it while I work on my HP stuff, and if they like it enough I'll update it until it's finished! (I have it all planned out!) Enjoyyyy!**

**Disclaimer: RENT isn't mine, or else what's happening in this fic would be the show.**

**Chapter One: Not So Hypothetically**

"Rog?" Mark asked tentatively, toying with the ends of his perpetually worn striped scarf. His blue eyes were trained on the floor between his feet.

"Mm?" came Roger's noncommittal reply from the couch. He was sprawled across it, legs draped over the arm as he doodled aimlessly in the margins of the old black notebook that Mark knew contained the lyrics to his songs. He didn't look up or otherwise acknowledge that he'd heard the blonde filmmaker. But that was Roger; he pretended to work, tried to, and ultimately ended up drawing ridiculous cartoons with more focus than Mark thought was really necessary.

The scrawny man knew that this was all of the attention he could expect to get from Roger if he didn't say something interesting enough to catch his bleach-blonde roommate's attention. He took a deep, steadying breath that didn't bolster his courage quite as much as he would have liked and went for it.

"Have you ever, er… slept with a guy?" he asked, voice cracking only slightly. Hopefully that was nonchalant enough.

"Sure, why? Got a hot date? Need some pointers?" Roger's tone was much more offhand than Mark could have pulled off, but the guitarist set aside his notebook and pen and sat up to survey his shy roommate with a wide, amused grin. Attention successfully caught. Mark looked up and spluttered, turning an even more interesting shade of crimson.

"No!" he protested a little too loudly. "Well, I mean, I guess… Wait, what? Really?" If possible, the filmmaker's face felt even hotter than before.

"No, I'm LYING," Roger snorted sarcastically. "Yeah man, more than once. So what?"

"That's, um... That's j-just… I didn't really ex-p-pect that from, um, you," Mark admitted awkwardly. His embarrassed stutter, which no one but his family and Roger had ever heard, was making an appearance and he wanted to slap himself. "You being the rock star and all, I kind of figured you for straight as an arrow…"

"Not really," the songwriter shrugged, running a hand casually through his carefully gel-spiked hair. "You have no idea what you're talking about if you think all rock stars in New York are 'straight as an arrow'." He made quotations around the phrase with his fingers, mocking Mark. "You don't think it's weird that Angel and Collins fucked, so why should I be any different? …Never mind. What's up?"

Fiddling with his fingers and biting his lip, Mark glanced away again. Suddenly, telling Roger at long last seemed so much harder. To his surprise, after a moment, the rocker snickered. "You're seriously blushing?" he asked, starting to laugh at Mark's discomfort. "What was it you were about to say? Or is Marky too scared of his big, bad bi roommate sneaking in bed with him to tell him now?"

"Roger!" he yelped, protesting. "You know I don't care. Almost all of our friends are gay… And I can't even count how many times we've come home piss-as drunk together and passed out in the same bed. I just wasn't expecting YOU to swing that way…" He trailed off, unsure if he should just blurt out what he had meant to tell Roger in the first place or if he should use the opportunity to back away from the topic.

"Then why did you ask?" Roger rolled his eyes. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively- Mark knew that his friend was only trying to embarrass him and he shouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction, but he was blushing again. Damn his translucent skin! "Anyways, finish your sentence. You guess….?"

"I-" He stopped, licking his dry lips. One of his eyes was developing a violent twitch, and his heart was threatening to burst out of his chest, but this was the moment of truth. He'd hidden it long enough.

"Rog, what would you think… Hypothetically speaking, of course! What would you say if I told you I was g-gay?" He stumbled over the sentences, feeling impossibly more humiliated. Taking it upon himself to flop down on the couch as far away from Roger as possible, the filmmaker chewed his lip until it bled, anxiously waiting for his roommate's response as Roger digested this in a moment of perfect silence.

"No shit?" he asked finally, his joking turned thoughtful. Mark didn't know if he should be disgruntled by the lack of surprise that his best friend was showing at the news; he said nothing, in any case. "Since when, Mark?"

"I said hypothetically," he complained. His hands itched for the comforting weight of his camera. "I guess… Always?" he said weakly to Roger's scrutiny. "I didn't tell anyone because… I don't know. It's stupid, I know."

"Move your ass closer, I'm not contagious… well, as long as my dick doesn't magically find its way up your ass, I'm not," Roger said, smiling easily as he moved a little bit closer to Mark and allowed the other man to close the rest of the gap so they could really watch each other as they talked. He slung an arm over the filmmaker's skinny shoulders in a gesture of support. "Alright, keep talking."

"I don't know!" Mark repeated in frustration. He gratefully leaned into Roger's warm body, happy to have the support of his closest friend; this is what he had feared he would lose if he confided this particular secret in Roger. This was what he'd ALWAYS been most afraid of losing. "No one would condemn me for it if I came out. At least, not anyone I care about. Just… I don't really know how."

"Don't know how to come out? Just tell everyone at once!" Roger suggested, looking Mark right in the eyes. His voice was so sincere compared to his usual rough edges that Mark would have laughed if he didn't find, to his mortification, tears of frustration stinging the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away, scowling at himself.

"No, I don't know how to do ANY of this," he clarified, sighing deeply as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to disguise the burning liquid. "I don't know how to tell people: our friends, my parents, my sister... And I don't know how I'm supposed to act, or, well, how gay SEX works. At least not enough to make an attempt. And how do you ask another guy out? How does that WORK?"

"The same as with a chick," Roger assured him. "I mean there are a few differences… Like, they have a cock. But dating and shit is the same with a guy or a girl." He grinned, making a lewd gesture with one closed fist and his index finger. "And, you know, you might end up taking it up the ass."

"That doesn't help me… I'm hopeless, Rog," he groaned. "Let's just declare me asexual and be done with it. What am I going to tell my family? They won't be as understanding as all of you. They're Jewish."

"Because you've been SO concerned about updating your parents on your life before?" Roger scoffed. He ruffled the nerdy boy's hair, letting his hand linger there for an extra moment. "Mark, you don't even have to come out to your parents if you really don't want to. Who cares? Who cares if the even know?"

"B-but they deserve to know that their only s-son is gay, don't they?" Mark blanched at his uncontrolled stuttering. It as an old habit, and it only surfaced when he was under a lot of pressure; the filmmaker found it to be humiliating either way. "Even if I d-don't like them."

Roger would have felt sorry for his conflicted friend if he didn't find the entire situation so amusing.

"I think we both know that you aren't going to introduce them to your first fuckin' boyfriend or anything," he commented snidely. "I don't see what there is to get worked up about."

At the mention of his first boyfriend, Mark nearly swallowed his tongue. Of course he knew that he liked men- to some degree he'd always known, though it had taken Maureen to set him straight. (Or not so straight, if you thought about it.) But until now, Mark hadn't even worried his little blonde head about things like boyfriends and introducing said boyfriends to other people in his life.

Now that he was out, at least to Roger, he was on the market for a boyfriend. That was an odd thought. At some point he'd find himself under some guy on a bed, and his friends would have to be informed.

Oh, God. Mark shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind. Roger should not have been included in that string of thoughts; he felt himself getting hard against his will at the thought of his roommate's naked body lying on top of him, cock nudging at his entrance… Ohh shit. No, no, no… Must think non-sexual thoughts about Roger.

Roger observed his friend with one eyebrow raised, taking in the mess that Mark was at the moment. He'd rarely seen his friend's skin simultaneously pale and blush; the result was an unattractive pinkish-white blotchiness overtaking his face. It looked rather awkward, which he supposed suited him. The other man's jaw was set in a tight frown, and he had a concentrated look in his eyes as he stared down at the floorboards.

"Hey, man, you okay?" he found himself asking, resting a hand on Mark's knee in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. He slid it up to his thigh and continued to stroke it with his thumb. It was a habit he'd picked up from Mimi, and the ex-rocker seemed unaware that it could be taken sexually. He just wanted to help Mark relax.

Mark didn't have that misconception. His dick gave a painful throb as Roger's large, calloused fingers gripped his thigh and he jumped, barely stifling an undignified squeak. Trying to draw attention away from the bulge in the front of his jeans, which he was oh-so-inconspicuously readjusting to be less obvious, Mark started babbling.

"It's just uh, that you said boyfriend and I started thinking about how I'm not very good at dating. And I guess I'm not really one for short relationships. I wasn't people to be my friend before I date them. You can't fall in love with someone who isn't your best friend."

"Oh Marky, I knew you loved me!" Roger cried, flashing him a winning smile and capturing both of the smaller man's hands in his. "Now we can be together happily-ever-after and you can have my babies!"

The mock-joy on the former rock god's face was enough to send Mark into a fit of relieved hysterical laughter. "Rog, you are literally the most ridiculous person I have ever met," he chuckled, slapping the guitarist away playfully. "Asshole. You know what I mean."

The two artists fell into a comfortable silence as Mark started to contemplate his options. Never one for silence, Roger broke it. "So, now you have to tell everyone else," he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Let's do it tomorrow, I haven't been to the Life in a while…"

"What?" Mark asked in disbelief. "Roger, I never said I was ready to."

"Come on, Marky, don't be a pussy. You knew once you told me that this was inevitable. It can't be that hard. Just think how happy Maureen will be? She'll probably think she turned you or something." The filmmaker had to laugh at that. He really could imagine his fiery ex-girlfriend's face as she got the news. Roger's puppy eyes were hard to resist…

"Well… Alright," he sighed, and Roger gleefully disentangled himself and sprinted to the phone to start making calls.


	2. I've Got Room!

**A/N: See? That didn't take as long as you thought. Since I actually got a review (which I wasn't expecting to, really!) I worked on this extra hard to have it done. Anyways, enjoy this chapter… Still no MarkRoger, unfortunately, you'll have to wait for that for a few chapters for that luxury.**

**Disclaimer: Mark and Roger aren't my boys, I'm afraid. They belong to RENT, which isn't mine.**

**Chapter Two: I've Got Room!**

The cracked pavement of the sidewalk became more and more interesting to the bespectacled filmmaker as Roger ushered him towards the doors of the Life Café. The songwriter, in his customary ripped jeans and leather jacket, couldn't stop grinning as he pulled Mark along by the waist. One or two passerby gave them dirty looks, glancing pointedly at Roger's arm around his reluctant friend, but he just flipped them the bird and gave them a suggestive smirk.

People were so ready to make assumptions about two starving artists walking down the street together. They deserved any dirty images he gave them.

He looked at his nervous friend as he narrated the day, or perhaps the upcoming events. Mark mumbled under his breath for the camera, cheeks flushed in embarrassment already. "Shouldn't have told Roger… knew it, knew he'd do this… don't think I need to tell everyone else, I mean…" Only snippets of what he was saying reached Roger's ears, but they only served to amuse him further.

As they finally stopped in front of the glass double doors, Mark sighed and switched off his camera, lowering it along with his head. The filmmaker looked up only to glare at his roommate with a pout on his lips and pleading in his piercing blue eyes. "I'll get you back for this," he threatened.

"Please. You think I'm scared of you, camera boy?" he taunted. A raindrop chose that moment to fall from the overcast sky straight into Roger's eye, and he blinked it away, rubbing absently at the moisture irritating his eye. Then, realizing what he'd done, the former rocker groaned loudly. "Shit. Hey, did I smudge my eyeliner?"

Mark stared at him for a moment, a bemused expression on his face. "You know, between the makeup and the sappy love songs… How didn't I already know you liked dick, again?" He gave a short bark of laughter before pushing the door inwards and entering the quaint establishment with Roger not far behind, still overly-concerned about the state of his eyeliner. It was filled with cheery yellow fluorescent lighting and a warmth that enveloped them in a wave, fogging the lenses of Mark's glasses. "You'd better be scared, guitar boy," he mocked, rubbing the lenses on the bottom of his sweater before replacing them on his face.

"Hey, Mimi, is my eyeliner smudged?" Roger asked distractedly as the Hispanic dancer squealed and bolted forward from her seat to fling her arms around his neck. She pulled back and scrutinized him for a moment- his dark brown eyelashes framed his vibrant green eyes beautifully, and they were coated with a thin layer of miniscule water droplets. As usual, his makeup was as flawlessly applied as hers.

"Good as always!" She smiled and shrieked, "Marky!" as she twirled around and bounded gracefully towards the filmmaker where he was, quite unsuccessfully, trying to blend into a corner. He flushed a nice shade of Humiliation Red. Roger mused to himself that maybe he should embarrass Mark some more at home. This was rather amusing, and God only knew how often he got bored.

Meanwhile, to curb her obviously tipsy girlfriend's enthusiasm Joanne had practically wrestled Maureen to pin her against the wall. She sighed in exasperation. "Is this REALLY necessary" she griped, rolling her eyes as Roger approached.

"Roger, make her let me go!" Maureen huffed, breasts heaving in quite a distracting manner as she breathed. Her top was ridiculously skimpy for the chilly weather, and if he squinted he could probably see her nipples right through the hair-thin material. Not that he was squinting. He knew perfectly well that if the chocolate-skinned lawyer ever caught him in such a scrutiny of Maureen Johnson that she would scalp him.

"No, I think I'll let you two have your fun," he said drily, and caught the beer thrown at his head purely on reflex before turning around with a grin already stretching across his face. "Collins! You made it out in time!" Collins caught him in a bear hug, laughing deeply, and Roger could see out of the corner of his eye the way that Mark was shrinking away from the unreasonably excitable Mimi.

What the hell? Had Collins been doling out his stash before Mark and Roger even got there?

"You said it was important. I didn't like that job, anyways, so I up and left as soon as you called," Tom shrugged, smiling fondly at the thought of just leaving his detestable teaching job completely on a whim. "Where is Mark, anyways?" he asked suddenly, looking around. He spotted the blonde filmmaker quickly before turning his attention back to Roger. "He seems a little bit nervous… Why did you drag us all out here?"

There's something suggestive in Collins' tone, and he glances between Roger and his roommate. The rocker scowls. Angela and Collins had developed a theory the previous year that he and Mark were the perfect soul mates and that one day they would end up in bed together, which Roger found to be a ridiculous notion.

He wasn't stupid enough to ruin his friendship with Mark for a night of amazing sex, no matter how adorable his friend could be sometimes.

"It's just some news I heard yesterday," the songwriter said, fighting back a fit of laughter as he recalled Mark's horrified expression when he suggested that they tell the bohemians about this revelation. It was likely that if he didn't force the matter, the rest of their friends would never get to know.

"MARK!" he called in his most obnoxious voice, earning a few glares from the suits dining nearby. He cheerfully flipped them off and used the same finger to make a come-hither gesture at the startled filmmaker.

"Fuck you…" Mark mumbled, slowly dawdling his way towards his roommate. "Why did I agree to this…"

The bohos had gathered around him in tight circle at amazing speed, all curious and eager to hear his news. "Did you get a new girlfriend?" Maureen gasped, but Mark jerkily shook his head and looked away with tight lips.

"Well? Get it over with, Mark!" Roger egged him on, nudging him with his elbow. He smiled encouragingly at the shorter man, and with that Mark took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Okay. I can do this," he pep talked himself under his breath. Roger snatched his camera so fast Mark almost didn't notice and thanked whatever God there might be that he knew how to work the contraption, because this moment would be priceless later. He gave Mark a lazy thumbs up and grinned in his most bastard-like fashion, training the lens on Mark who scowled in embarrassment.

"Um… I don't really know how to start… But no, Maureen, I don't think you're ever going to hear that I got a new girlfriend so you can cross that off," he chuckled nervously. She blinked, a slow smile creeping onto her face, but before she could voice her thoughts Collins butted in.

"Did you test positive?" he inquired, a note of worry in his voice. Mark stared at him for a moment uncomprehendingly.

"What…? No, no, I'm negative as always I just got tested last month," he heard himself reassuring his taller friend, still nonplussed. _Huh, I might have to start worrying about that more now won't I?_

Roger had had enough of this waiting business. If he let this continue then Mark was just going to keep stumbling over himself. "Tell them or I will," he sing-songed, eyes glimmering with barely-repressed laughter. Mark always made him want to laugh, with his nervous mannerisms.

"I'm gay!" he squeaked automatically, eyes widening as he realized what he'd just done. Panicked, he marched to Roger and stole his camera back.

"Give me that…" he muttered, so red in the face that he could have been mistaken for the world's largest tomato.

_Shiiiiit. Fuck… it wasn't supposed to come out exactly like THAT._

"Oh my GOD!" Maureen and Mimi squealed at the same time, turning to each other and hugging ecstatically. Collins dark face split into a blindingly white grin, and he patted Mark on the back as Joanne's eyes lit up.

"I'm glad you decided to tell us," she said sincerely, offering an encouraging smile that was significantly less evil than Roger's had been.

"Join the club," Collins added, eyes flashing to Roger once again. He wasn't going to voice his opinion, but from the way Mark was glaring at him he seemed to know what he was thinking anyways. Their silent communication was interrupted by Maureen's glass-shattering shriek.

"I DID THIS! I TURNED YOU GAY!" She flew at Mark, and his baby blues widened comically as he awkwardly embraced her. "Oh, Marky! I'm so happy! How many guys have you slept with? Do you want me to take you to a gay club? Ooh, let's all go tonight! It's on me!" She looked up with a tearful smile.

If Maureen were any more dramatic, she could be on Broadway. Mark thought this to himself even as he heaved an internal sigh of relief. He was feeling just a bit more confident now that he'd already blurted out his big secret and seen everyone's positive reactions. He shrugged at Maureen's questions.

"Uh… No, I haven't dated anyone yet, exactly… I'm not in my element yet, he explained, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "And I don't know about going to a gay club-"

Roger had disappeared and returned just as quietly, noticing how visibly more relaxed Mark was with the camera in his hands again. He was ridiculously attached to that thing. Roger would have to make a point of changing that soon.

"I think you should go, I'll come with you," Roger offered in an offhand tone, earning a raised eyebrow from Joanne. Of course, she didn't know about Roger's fluid preferences. "We can get wasted!"

"No!" Mark said, looking scandalized. His eyes followed Roger's gaze to the waiter a few tables down curiously, but he had other things to think about. "Let's just sit down and order and talk about this later," he pleaded, and the grumbling bohemians complied.

They may have been raucous people, but when you pissed Mark off you were asking for it. It would be wise about now to keep their mouths shut, for their friend's sake and their own.

Roger sat in the empty seat across from Mar, a smug grin on his face as he opened his menu. "What…" he started to ask the guitarist suspiciously, but the waiter had arrived and interrupted him before he could finish his question.

"Can I take your orders?" he asked, one had on his hip in a rather flamboyant fashion. Jimmy was a young Asian waiter who had started working at the Life less than two years ago, and he had no problem flaunting his homosexuality. That was, in fact, part of the reason he'd moved to New York City, something Mark knew only because they had as a group taken a liking to him. He was after all an interesting person, and the only waiter in the entire restaurant that would join in their antics from time to time when he thought he could get away with it.

"You go first, Mark, it's your day," Mimi said, positively beaming. The curly-haired girl had suspected since the day she had met him that Mark was in the closet, and here he was finally telling them all. It was a momentous occasion. Maureen giggled and she soon joined her. Rolling his eyes, Mark asked for a mug of tea and watched as Jimmy went around the table scribbling orders down on the pad of paper in his hand, tongue sticking out in concentration every time he looked down.

"Alright! Won't be long," he smiled, and out of nowhere he was leaning towards Mark and fluttering his eyelashes flirtatiously. "Have a good day, Mark." He rested his hand briefly on top of the blonde's, letting it linger long enough that it couldn't possibly be taken platonically before flouncing away with a wink tossed over his shoulder.

Mark blinked owlishly, confused and frozen, and he heard his friends snickering loudly at the face he was making.

"You asswipe," he growled at Roger, narrowing his eyes at the way his roommate was biting his lip to contain his laughter.

"What?" he tried, rearranging his face into a mask of innocence. It crumbled after less than a minute. "Maybe he just- Maybe he just overheard our- Oh okay, butyou should have seen your face!" he sniggered, dodging the packet of sugar that Mark threw at him in annoyance.

Collins, seeing the embarrassment that Mark was trying to keep hidden form his friends, stepped up to alleviate it by changing the subject.

"So, are you gonna tell your parents?"

Mark internally groaned. Not this AGAIN… He glanced at Roger and recalled what the guitarist had told him the night before. "I don't think I really want to… I guess I should," he confessed. "But my mom… you don't know my mom like I do. She's been trying to drag me to Jewish singles mixers since I was twelve years old. If I tell her I'm gay… Oh, not to mention that I'll be DISOWNED if my dad finds out."

"You're not going go out and find a date and you're not going to tell anyone. Why did you even bother telling us? Do we have to drag you out of the closet?" Maureen frowned, moving closer to Joanne and giving her a quick peck on the lips to demonstrate.

"I don't need to come out of the closet! I'm comfortable- you guys can all come visit me in here whenever you want, I've got room!" Mark exclaimed, troubled. Roger suddenly leaned across the table and forced his lips onto his roommates for a brief second, and before he could even react to this unexpected act of intimacy he was seated again looking as if nothing had happened. "Roger… what the fuck?"

"I was proving a point," he shrugged, wincing at the piercing shriek coming from Mimi's direction. "It's easy to come out. Just do something like that."

Mark sank further into his chair, face burning. His friends were never going to take no for an answer, were they?

What had he gotten himself into?


	3. The Opposite of 'Help'

**A/N: Hello everyone! Was in the mood to write and, well, this is a really amusing chapter… So here we are. Enjoy! Reviews are my crack. Help me maintain my addiction. It's worse this week since my boyfriend isn't here to tell me he loves me every day. Therefore, I need reviews to boost my self-esteem. LET THE MARKROGERNESS BEGIN!**

**Disclaimer: RENT. Mine? Not. Okay, I think that should be cleared up now.**

**Chapter Three: The Opposite of 'Help'**

"Roger," Mark growled, feeling rather like a trapped animal with his heart pounding frantically and his back against the wall as his roommate advanced on him. "Roger, we talked about this. You don't have to-"

"Shut up and let me put some fucking eyeliner on you already, Mark," the songwriter muttered. Although he was trying to sound nonchalant, Roger couldn't keep the grin off his face. If he was honest with Mark, he knew that the smaller man wasn't a makeup kind of guy. Roger himself only wore so much because it was, well, glam for his rocker look… and he was damn sexy in eyeliner.

Mark was feminine enough, and the way he dressed... Well, unless he was going clubbing or he suddenly acquired an entirely new, cooler wardrobe, Mark didn't need to be anywhere near a stick of eyeliner.

Nevertheless, it was fun making him squirm.

"Roger, no! Roger!" Mark cried, squeezing his eyes shut as the eyeliner pencil in Roger's hand made for his eye. "Don't stab me in the eye you jackass!"

Roger cackled evilly, but he decided that he'd put Mark through enough torture for the day. Enough cosmetic torture, anyways. He regretfully put the cap back on and slipped the stubby black pencil into his pocket, smiling wryly and holding out his empty hands for Mark to see as he peeked at him fearfully from under his lashes.

"Fine. But if I'm not allowed to put any eyeliner on you, then I have to think of another kind of lesson to give you…" He pondered for a moment the vast amount of things that Mark probably didn't have a clue about when it came to homosexuality in practice, finally settling on something that would be equally if not more amusing than making his friend looking like a scary raccoon.

"Roger…?" Mark asked guardedly, still backed against the wall. "What are you thinking…?" His roommate hadn't moved any further away, although they were uncomfortably close for two friends who had no intentions whatsoever of taking it to the bedroom.

_Well, not NO intentions whatsoever…_

Mark flushed at his own thoughts, stifling the urge to bang his head against the wall. No no no no no. He had been over this with himself. No sexual thoughts about Roger. Just because there was a possibility now, because Roger was bi and had for some reason chosen only recently to tell him… For God's sake, Cohen, get it together! Mind out of the gutter!

In his flustered mental tirade, the filmmaker failed to notice the predatory gleam in Roger's eyes or the way he was subtly inching himself closer until he was being shoved further into the wall and his wrists were being pinned up above his head in one fluid movement of the rocker's large, calloused hand. Blue eyes widening in surprise, Mark opened his mouth to ask what the fuck Roger thought he was doing when a pair of chapped lips descended on his.

"MMPH!" Mark attempted to protest, twisting his wrists to free them, but Roger's grip was far too tight and he had to wait until the guitarist pulled away from his unresponsive lips to form any real words.

Roger pulled away, smirking in amusement at the discomfort pervading the stiff man he had pinned to the wall. The mild panic in Mark's eyes was endlessly entertaining. He could imagine the thoughts going through Mark's head, overanalyzing everything as usual, probably wondering how he'd tell Roger he wasn't interested or marveling over Roger's supreme kissing skills.

That last part might have been Roger's ego talking.

"Shush, I'm teaching you how to kiss a guy," he cut Mark off as the bespectacled man started to stutter out a sentence. Eyes still wide open, he leaned down again and sucked Mark's bottom lip into his mouth, gently tugging at it with his teeth until he opened his mouth and Roger could swipe his tongue over that lower lip tantalizingly before diving in.

Damn it all to hell. If Roger was going to play cocktease with him Mark was never going to kick his disturbing habit of fantasizing about his friend at inopportune moments. Hesitantly he responded, bringing his hands up to grasp at Roger's bleached hair and figuring that he could always excuse himself with the fact that he was a hands-on learner.

Roger grinned against Mark's mouth, shaking off the uneasy feeling that he was enjoying this a little too much to be entirely platonic. It was MARK, and everybody knew how adorable that Mark Cohen was.

Not to mention that he'd always had a bit of a weakness for his favorite filmmaker.

He had his roommate right where he wanted him, and he was sure that right now he could ask anything of Mark and he would comply. Roger pushed a knee between Mark's legs, spreading them just enough that he could fit his hips against the blonde's and push their chests firmly together. The hand that wasn't occupied with Mark's wrists slid up his side, lightly stroking, and back down again until it was dangerously close to Mark's nether regions.

Breaking away and opening his eyes to reveal a spark of mischief and maybe a hint of arousal, Roger drank in the sight of Mark flushed and panting beneath him, blue eyes hazy. He leaned in and breathed against those lips, "I hope you enjoyed this more than the eyeliner, Marky."

He abruptly backed off and released the dumbfounded filmmaker from his grasp, striding into the kitchen. He was grinning from ear to ear, trying to ignore the treacherous fluttering of his heart in his chest that it had given him to kiss his best friend.

"Roger… what just happened?" Mark asked weakly from the next room. Roger sniggered.

"Practice makes perfect, Mark…"

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Maureen had dragged him out SHOPPING.

Mark was certain that shopping was, in fact, the equivalent to hell on earth. This being said, he was fully prepared to move back in with his mother and go to temple in Scarsdale every day to avoid ever ending up trapped in hell with Maureen Johnson.

He may have been being just a little dramatic. But seeing as he wasn't yet fully recovered from Roger's sexual harassment the day before, which he couldn't truthfully say was totally unwanted, he could excuse himself. Next to Maureen no one would be able to tell that he was feeling like a drama queen that day anyways.

"You'd just be ADORABLE in this!" she gasped, pulling a blue hoodie off of the rack closest to them and holding it up to him. "It looks like your size, too! Here, go try it on with the rest."

Maureen shoved several items of clothing, all of which had received the same introduction to him as she grabbed them from random racks around the store, and shoved them into Mark's reluctant hands. He grimaced at some of the articles, including but not limited to what looked to be a jean skirt.

"Maureen. I know you like to shop, but if I'm wearing something that starts at my waist I'd like it to travel all the way down to my ankles. I'd also like it to have legs." He paused, squinting at the shirt on the top of the stack. "Is this- is this MESH?"

The brunette just swatted at him reproachfully, sticking out her tongue like a child. "Just try it on! You might like it."

Slowly, the line for the changing rooms dwindled and they reached the desk. A young blonde woman with ear buds in her ears and a wad of gum in her mouth flipped through her fashion magazine, looking supremely bored. She slapped a "5" tag into Mark's hand for the door handle and he was ushered into the nearest open room.

The malls in New York City were not known for their cleanliness, and the changing rooms were no exception. This one had yellowed walls, a cracked mirror and peeling linoleum floors, and in the corner was something that Mark was almost positive was old vomit. Sighing, he gingerly sat the items of clothing on the wooden bench taking up half of the tiny room and picked up the black mesh t-shirt.

_I can't believe I'm doing this…_Mark thought bemusedly as he stripped off his beloved red-and-blue striped sweater. He took a deep breath before pulling the offending t-shirt over his head, glad for once that his blonde hair was too short to really mess up because it surely would have with all of those holes.

His eyes widened comically as he turned to survey himself in the mirror. Ohhh, fuck. No. No he was not going out in public in this shirt.

Mark had never been particularly fond of his body, seeing as he was both pale and scrawny, not to mention a little on the short side. The black of the shirt made him look exponentially paler, as well as revealing more of his pasty complexion than it concealed. Just as he started to pull one arm back through so he could take it back off, he heard Maureen yelling through the door, so loud that she must have been pressed up against it.

"Mark? Are you done? I want to see!" The doorknob turned, and before he could shimmy out of it his ex-girlfriend had barged into the room excitedly and was squealing in a pitch that Mark thought may only have been heard by any dolphins or bats in the area.

"Hot DAMN, Mark!" she said when she was done, eyeing him critically. "You won't be having any problems getting a guy to take you home…"

He only sighed again, knowing that if he tried to convince her not to buy it she'd only go off on a rant about how he needed to expand his wardrobe and she had a credit card.

For the third time that day.

Why, why did Joanne have to give her that evil piece of plastic?

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Collins and Mark sat, or rather sprawled, on the duct-taped couch in the center of the loft leisurely as they passed a joint back and forth.

"Collins, man, thanks for not going crazy over my gay thing," Mark said, relaxing for the first time since Roger had molested him ten feet from where he was sitting at that moment. He could have put it more eloquently, but that was the thing about being high- you just don't give a flying fuck. And it had been a long time since Mark had shared a joint with Collins.

"Why would I?" the dark-skinned man beside him said languorously, staring at some imaginary spot on the ceiling. "People fall in love with people, Mark. Whether or not they have the 'right' anatomy. Some people just have… preferences. And their preferences are their business."

He nodded, taking in the philosopher's words more deeply than he would have were he sober. Collins was always spewing this kind of shit out at them, but when he was high it made perfect sense.

Mark had loved Maureen because she was fiery and passionate and she needed him. He didn't love her for having a vagina- in fact, she was so dominant that Mark could see now how submissive he really was, contrary to most men. And most importantly, she'd been his FRIEND, and she still was even if she dragged him shopping and made his ears hurt when he could have been filming.

A brief image of Roger floated through his mind, but he brushed it away with little effort, giggling at a different thought that had floated through his head.

"You know, this was all Roger's idea, the whole giving you lessons on how to be gay spiel," Collins said absently. He was smiling, obviously remembering whatever amusing things the guitarist had said. "But I think he had a point. You don't really know what you're doing when it comes to dating anyone, not just when it comes to dating other men."

Mark could only nod to that, remembering all of his embarrassing experiences- Nanette, Caroline, that nameless girl at the hot dog stand at the baseball game his father had taken him to, Maureen. He'd royally effed them all up without even trying.

"You know what I think your problem is, Cohen?" he continued rhetorically. "I think you just don't really know what your type is. I think you're going for people that you don't really like."

The shorter man frowned, furrowing his brow in confusion. Why would he want to date someone that he didn't like? Why did he accept Nanette's and Maureen's advances if he didn't feel attracted to them? Well, he wasn't that fond of the sex in either case, and he'd once called out the name of a prettier girl with Nanette and she had slapped him and broken up with him the next day, but…

He blinked, shocked that Collins might actually be right.

"Maybe I'll have better luck with guys," he mused out loud, taking a long drag from the diminishing joint and passing it back to his friend. "Maybe it was just the vaginas." He giggled some more. Mark had always been giggly when he was high.

"Or 'cause you just want to make other people happy," Collins said, and then let out a bark of laughter. "You're like the anti-Roger. He just wants to make himself happy. Maybe you should talk to him."

The image of that bleached hair and those green eyes were back in the forefront of Mark's mind, chapped lips smiling at him mischievously, but Mark couldn't bring himself to banish it again.

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"Aren't you supposed to be working, Mimi?"

"I am working. Just watch."

Mark sat back, raising his eyebrows incredulously. As far as he knew, the Latina was a stripped, not a prostitute. Yet here they were on a street corner, the tan-skinned girl made up with thick mascara and shiny lip gloss in the tiniest mini-dress he'd ever seen and a pair of heels so tall that it made him scared for her life. If she didn't look like a prostitute, then he wasn't gay.

And they had certainly established at this point that he WAS gay…

She struck a pose on the corner, batting her lashes and giving a slow, seductive smile at any man that passed by. Several suits gave her looks of disgust or of repressed desire before quickly striding away. A homeless man across the street gave her a wistful once-over before ambling away. It was twenty minutes before she got any of them to stop for her.

A tall, gangly, balding man in glasses approached her nervously, pulling at his tie- he looked as though he'd just come from a particularly stressful business meeting. Mimi wasn't deterred by his appearance; Mark watched in mild disbelief as she placed a light hand on the man's arm and purred something into his ear, pulling away and batting her eyelashes. His eyes widened and he stepped away, striding more quickly down the street with half a grin on his face.

"Wh- What did you SAY to him?" Mark asked, baffled to say the least.

"That was your lesson in seduction and flirting, Mark," she laughed. "Be a tease. Don't give them what they want right away and they'll come back for more." She ruffled his hair affectionately, winking one large brown eye.

"But what did you SAY?" he demanded, concerned for his friend. She just rolled her eyes.

"All of the Cat Scratch girls have to take a shift on the street 'advertising'," she said ruefully. "It's not the most glamorous job- but hey, it pays the bills."

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"I thought you might have had sort of a stressful couple of days, so… Let's just eat," Joanne smiled at him in the dim lighting of the private booths of the Life Café that night. Mark visibly relaxed, slumping his shoulders wearily.

"Everyone wants to help me, but mostly I think I'm just getting more confused," he admitted to the dark-skinned woman before him. Joanne and he were, in a way, of the same mind, and it was so easy to talk to her. If he was honest, he knew that if he needed advice she'd be right up there with Roger as one of the first people he'd ask.

Again, Roger's smiling face popped into his head and his lips tingled. Mark resisted the urge to touch them, remembering his roommate's lips on his, but he could see that Joanne saw the troubled thoughts written clearly on his face.

"Mark, is there something you want to talk about?" the lawyer asked, smiling in encouragement. She didn't push- Joanne was good at that, not probing for information but waiting until he decided it was okay to tell her.

"I just feel a little nervous… about, you know, coming out to my family," he lied after a moment, pushing away the confusing thoughts of Roger. Joanne looked skeptical for a moment, but she let it go.

"Well I think that's something I can actually help you with," she said warmly, accepting her plate of pasta as it was set down in front of her and thanking the waiter before turning back to her blonde friend. "I never told any of you how I came out, did I?"

"No," he answered, suddenly curious. What WAS Joanne's story? Of all of them, he'd always assumed that Joanne was the most mainstream, the most successful with loving parents and a confident attitude. The rest of them had shared their fucked up stories time and time again, but Joanne had stayed contentedly silent. What was her baggage?

"Lucky for me, my parents are accepting people," she told him, looking off to the side with her dark eyes distant. "I waited until I was safely away at college before I told them anything about the people I'd been seeing all those years I told them I was dating… They said that they'd had their suspicions all along, anyways. I didn't exactly lie, I just left out their genders. A lie by omission but still, not so bad right? But I'm glad I told them. And you'll be glad, too, even if your parents react differently."

"My parents aren't going to be happy," Mark replied with a huge sigh. He closed his eyes, imagining his mother's tearful voice on the phone asking him hysterically if he was joking around with her because this WAS NOT FUNNY. "They're divorced. My dad's an abusive bastard, my mom's been nagging on me to get married to a nice Jewish girl and settle down so I can have a bunch of grandchildren for her to spoil… I just don't know if I can tell her. She's going to cry."

Joanne put down her fork and reached out to grasp on of his hands in both of hers, squeezing reassuringly. "I know it's hard, Mark, but you have to do what's right for you and I think that at least your mother will be able to accept that."

"I know that Cindy already had kids and all, but she still…" He trailed off, at a loss. Mark had struggled with his sexuality for so long now it was odd to allow himself to think, "I'm gay, and it's not wrong." He felt guilty, and although he knew he shouldn't it was gnawing at him anyways.

"Don't worry, Mark. Even if your parents give you crap about it… you always have us. We're a family, too." Joanne offered him a kind smile before returning her attention to her meal. Feeling a bit calmer he followed suit.

It was funny to think that he was sitting here with his ex-girlfriend's fiancée enjoying a meal- but out of everyone, Mark thought that Joanne had probably been the only one to give him any help at all.


	4. Tell the Folks at Home

**A/N: Heeere's chapter four for all of you! I'm really sad because no one reviewed chapter three… :( Make it better and tell me what you thought of this chapter, ne? I need to know if people like this dammit! This will probably be a short one.**

**Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure, after some extensive research, that RENT doesn't in fact belong to me.**

**Chapter Four: Tell the Folks at Home**

"You REALLY won't go with us?" Maureen pouted. Even through the phone, Mark could see her lower lip jutting out, shoulders slumping. He was also imagining her in a cat suit again, but that was just because Maureen ALWAYS appeared in his head in rubber. It was something to do with the kind of person she was, he expected…

"Mo, you know I don't have much of a tolerance," he sighed for the fortieth time. "No, I don't want to go. You know I don't want to go. We've already ESTABLISHED that I don't, nor can I be forced to, go to the Pyramid Club with you."

"But pookie!" she whined. "You haven't had sex since ME! Don't you want to meet someone?"

"I'm calling my parents tomorrow and telling them," he said abruptly, and then there was a brief silence as Maureen realized the gravity of those words.

"OH… Marky, are you sure? It might help you get your mind off of it," she said softly, more serious now. Mark didn't hesitate to get himself out of this potentially disastrous situation.

"No, really Maureen, it's fine." He replied, smiling wryly. "I'm going to stay in tonight. Collins is dropping by later."

"Do you want me to come over for moral support?"

"It's fine," he repeated. "Just go out with Joanne, you two will have a good time. And try not to make out with anyone else."

"Okay... Bye, Marky. Good luck!"

The filmmaker set the phone down in the receiver at long last, allowing the relief to wash over him.

He didn't know why it was so terrifying- the thought of going out to a gay club, that is. Maybe it was because he was so used to being closeted, or maybe even an irrational fear that someone from his family or from Scarsdale would recognize him there and tell his parent before he could. Of course, that didn't really make any sense- someone from SCARSDALE in the Pyramid Club? If he was there, this faceless man I was imagining, and I was there that would make two of them, and that defied the laws of logic- but then, there was a reason they were called irrational.

Roger strolled into the room, juice box in hand. This week their food supply consisted of Captain Crunch cereal, always a favorite, and Hawaiian punch-flavored juice boxes, which the songwriter had taken a great liking to. It usually made Mark giggle to see his roommate acting like a five-year old with his enthusiasm, but today he was far too anxious.

"What crawled up your ass and died?" the rocker asked, noticing his expression. "Maureen give you a hard time?"

"I'm just nervous," Mark muttered, wishing more than anything as he stared at the white plastic phone in front of him that it would ring again, this time with someone on the other end that would tell him his parents were both out of the country on vacation and couldn't speak to him until thy got back… never.

Sensing his roommate's apprehension as he heaved a sigh and trudged back into his room, presumably to mope, Roger picked up the same phone and dialed in a familiar number.

"Collins?" he asked when it was picked up after the second ring. "You there, man?"

"Yeah, Rog, what's up?" The songwriter grinned at what he had in mind.

"Mark is feeling a little down about telling his parents tomorrow and I thought we should loosen him up…"

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"Awww, look Marky's drunk," Roger laughed, more than a little tipsy himself. He took a drag from the joint between his thumb and forefinger before passing it back to the anarchist beside him, whose booming laugh echoed through the smoky loft. Said filmmaker made a point to glare at him, but it was hard to take him seriously when he was shirtless and flushed from intoxication.

Sure enough, seconds later he burst into a fit of giggles for no apparent reason and leaned against Roger for support, tears streaming from his eyes. A few hours ago he had been angsting by himself over things he couldn't control, but now…

Roger liked to credit himself with Mark's current state of half-nakedness and inebriation. Although Collins had supplied the booze and the pot, he had been the one to lure the filmmaker out of his room, not to mention the one to, in a momentary lapse of judgment, decide he liked his best friend better when he was less clothed.

"M'not DRUNK," Mark whined, pawing at his friend's side when he had recovered. ""M'just… I just- Wow, your hair is so soft-looking," he said absently, completely losing the thread of the conversation as he reached up with his blue eyes wide to touch the bleach-blonde hair on Roger's head. The rocker laughed again at this, feeling light and free and utterly at peace.

"Now, now, boys, don't be getting it on while I'm in the room," Collins said, chuckling at the odd embrace the two were sharing. He'd had his suspicions that Mark had been in love with Roger for a long time, and vice versa, but the only time he'd ever voiced it to Roger before they'd both been sober and Roger had run off to get drunk after a long shouting match, diving happily into denial.

Sometimes, the anarchist mused, Roger was more dramatic than Maureen.

Nevertheless, as he watched the guitarist leaned down, green eyes falling closed, to touch his lips to Mark's briefly. The smaller man arched up into it eagerly, hands halfway up to Roger's face before the guitarist pulled away and flashed a lazy grin at his tall, black friend.

"What are you talking about, Collinsssss?" he drawled, and Mark giggled, resting his head in Roger's lap. "Me and Mark aren't doin' anything…"

Collins raised his eyebrows, wondering if Roger was really so high that he didn't even notice that he was contradicting himself, but decided to let it slide. He took a final swig of his bottle and set it down, empty, on the floor. "Let's play truth or dare," he suggested, well aware that Mark had left his camera rolling on the floor not two feet away. In the morning he would see this footage and probably question Collins about it, but he would deal with that later.

"That's for teenaged girls!" the bespectacled man protested. " An' I'm a chickenshit, anyways…"

Roger stuck out his tongue at Mark, grinning mischievously. The resulting expression was rather obnoxious. Collins fought the urge to point this out. Neither of these boys had any tolerance… He sighed. "I'll go first," he offered, to which neither replied. They were too absorbed in their staring contest. "Mark. Truth or dare?"

"Oh. Uhhh… Truth." The blonde said after a long pause, screwing up his face in concentration. He was just too damn cute, like an innocent little puppy, and sometimes Collins had a hard time he'd ever dated Maureen and come out unscathed.

"Who you been lusting after lately?" the professor asked, feeling triumphant. There wasn't really any way he could get out of answering a question that direct, was there?

"Uhh. Um…" the filmmaker stumbled over his words, suddenly blushing so hard that Collins could almost feel the heat radiating off of his red cheeks. Roger was staring at him avidly now, awaiting his answer. "I guess… No one in particular."

"You're such a LIAR," Roger said, narrowing his eyes. "Like I haven't noticed you've been taking long ass showers for the past week and a half… There has to be SOMEONE."

"No, there's not," Mark said again, apparently determined to stick to his blatant lie. When his roommate suddenly grabbed at his sides and started tickling them, eliciting a squeal and a bout of raucous, uncontrolled laughter, Collins' hopes that he might get something out of Mark- namely something to confirm his suspicions about the two- plummeted.

However, a moment later when Mark lunged up and brought the other man's face to his near violently in a kiss, Collins thought that there might be some hope after all.

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The phone was ringing.

That was Mark's first thought when he woke on the couch in Roger's arms, eyes barely cracked open- why was it so BRIGHT? Ugh- and mouth tasting absolutely horrid. His tongue felt fuzzy. Grimacing, the filmmaker attempted to sit up only to yelp at the sharp pain in his temples and crumple back to the scratchy surface of the couch, cheek pressed to Roger's chest.

"Mmmm… Marky?" Roger mumbled, green eyes merely slits. He made no attempt to sit up, clearly smarter than the filmmaker squashed against him. In the background, the shrill ringing continued until the voice mail message started playing.

"SPEEEEEEEEEEAK."

Both of them winced as Mark's mother's high-pitched voice rang throughout the quiet loft. "Mark? It's mom. I thought you were calling today, but it's one and I haven't heard from you- I'm worried. Mark? Are you there?"

Swearing, Mark stumbled out of bed and ran for the phone, picking it up and still wincing at the headache making his vision swim. "Hey, mom," he croaked, trying not to sound as hungover as he really was. "Sorry, you woke me up…"

"Mark? Why are you sleeping in until one in the afternoon?" she asked, voice grating on his fried nerves. He knew that she was only concerned, but after a night that long and that much alcohol, he couldn't help being irritated. "Is that addict roommate of yours-"

"He's CLEAN, mom, I told you that!" he snapped at the mention of Roger. Mark sighed after a pause, voice softening. "Anyways. I had a late night with my roommates and I guess I just lost track of time. I'm glad you called, though, I had something to tell you today…"

"What is it? Did you test positive for that awful disease?" she asked frantically. Mark fought the urge to scream. Since he'd let it slip that April had killed herself because she and Roger had HIV his mother had been distinctly disapproving of his best friend, blaming him for everything that went wrong in Mark's life even when it had nothing to do with him. "Oh, Mark, I told you to be careful sweetie-"

"Mom, I'm gay!" he shouted, sick of her overbearingness.

And there was silence.

And Mark realized the mistake he'd made. _Shit._

"Mom?" he murmured, hoping to God he hadn't made her faint. But no, there was a choked noise- shit. Crying. Oh, fuck. "Mom, I'm sorry I yelled, I just… I really needed to tell you-"

"Honey, no, this can't… we brought you up so well! You were always such a nice, sweet boy! You can't be… You dated Maureen! You still love her, I know it," she said desperately, hanging on to this last shred of hope that her son wasn't what she'd always called an abomination. "You've always loved Maureen. Since you were six years old."

"I'm sorry, Mom, but… I don't love Maureen. I never loved her," he said tiredly. He could feel Roger's gaze fixed on him intently as he talked, waiting to jump in if he sounded like he needed him. "I… I'm just… I'm gay," he said lamely, not really sure what else he COULD say in this situation and feeling like his head was about to split open.

His mother's sniffling became sobbing and suddenly it sounded farther away, a booming male voice taking its place. "MARK!" his father roared. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!_ "Do you hear what you've done? Your mother is in hysterics! Come home THIS INSTANT and apologize for your little joke!"

Despite the fact that, as always, his body had frozen in terror at the sound of his father's voice, Mark knew he had to defend his claim. "Dad… It's not a joke! I'm g-g-gay!" He winced at the return of his stutter.

"No son of mine is a faggot," Mr. Cohen growled menacingly. "You're going to come home and apologize to your mother and go back to Brown and study to be a lawyer. You're going to marry a nice Jewish girl and have some grandchildren for us. And you're NOT going to continue staying in that… that poisonous environment with that junkie faggot roommate of yours-"

He slammed the phone down on the receiver, sweating and trembling and amazed at himself. He'd just… Hung up on his dad. His dad, who was probably going to physically come down here and bang down the door of the loft and give Mark a bloody nose before twisting his arm behind his back and dragging him back home, exactly where he didn't want to be.

Oh, shit. He'd better call Cindy before his father got to her.

"Hiiiiiii! You've reached Cindy and Doug! Leave a message at the beep and we'll get back to you ASAP!" He could almost hear her cheery smile as she said the words. As much as he and his sister didn't see eye to eye, he'd always been able to trust her to look out of him as her little brother, and if anyone would protect him from his father's wrath and calm their mother down it was Cindy.

"Listen, Cindy," he said frantically when the beep sounded, speaking fast. "It's Mark. Dad's furious and Mom is in hysterics because I told her I was gay- please, for God's sake, believe me when I say I wasn't trying to upset her- and don't let Dad come after me wielding a torch, he knows where I live. I love you." And the final beep sounded.

"Mark?" Roger asked groggily, full of concern for his friend. "Didn't go well, huh?"

"No…" he said, voice choking at the end of the word. Overwhelmed by this onslaught of emotion and his parent's rejection of him and his terrible hangover, he took a few shaky steps towards Roger, who was now standing not two feet away from him and slumped against his friend.

The rocker wrapped his arms around the filmmaker, sighing and mentally glaring daggers at the people responsible for Mark's miniature breakdown. "Shhhh," he murmured, hugging him close and gently stroking his hair. Sweater-clad arms threw themselves around his neck as Mark hugged him back, sobbing into his chest. "They're just… they're idiots, Mark. You're amazing. You don't need them."

A couple of tear-garbled words made it past Mark's lips as he cried before he managed to clear his throat. "Roger they hate me! Because I'm a fucking faggot and my dad's going to make me go home with him if he finds me and I don't want to leave! I just want to stay here with-" _With you._

"It's going to be okay, Marky," he soothed, pressing a kiss to his distraught friends temple in an attempt to calm him down. "I'm right here, I won't let him take you away…"

From the hallway, Collins watched the exchange with more than a hint of a smile on his face.


	5. Levels of Humiliation

**A/N: GUYS! I'M SO SORRY! D: For real! I didn't mean for that to take so long! I feel soooo guilty… But, well, I'm back and I'll be updating as often as I can! I hope you're all at least enjoying the short journal entries I've been posting from my roleplay on Facebook as Mark. Here you go! The long anticipated next chapter! Enjoy!**

**P.S. I'm officially obsessed with Chess in Concert, which by the way contains Adam Pascal AND Idina Menzel and of course Josh Groban… Blame TheInksane and Angelic Prophecy. :P BLAME THEM. It's their fault.**

**Disclaimer: RENT, Marky, Rog and the gang all not mine :/ New York is sort of mine though… I mean… I pay taxes right?**

**Chapter Five: Levels of Humiliation**

"Hi, um…" Mark scratched the back of his head awkwardly, already having forgotten the girl's name. She just giggled, blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders entirely too cheerfully. It grated on his nerves.

"Daisy," she supplied helpfully, beaming. Sickeningly cheerful. It was enough to make Mark want to throw up, or that could be the drink Roger had decided he needed before he left the loft. "For courage!" he'd insisted, sniggering when the bespectacled man nearly choked on the liquor burning the back of his throat.

"Right… I'm- I'm, uh, I'm Mark. Maureen sent me…" He trailed off, unsure of whether or not he should stick out his hand for a handshake.

Another irritating giggle. "To see my brother? Bryce is getting dressed. He'll be right out."

By now, Mark was seriously considering bailing on this date. He wasn't exactly relaxed, but why should he be? Mark Cohen did NOT do blind dates. Yet Maureen had decided to tell him, just this morning, that she'd made one with one of her old "friends". He strongly suspected that this meant he was one of the countless men that she'd cheated on him with while they were together, and that wasn't encouraging.

But he had stopped reeling from the rejection of his parents. It had been a week. He was out, and it was about time he started dating.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself as he rocked back and forth on his heels on his date's doorstep. Still, this could turn out to be a total dud- judging by the guy's sister, who was annoying the fuck out of him (fuck, he was starting to sound like Roger, too, even with the excessive use of the F-word) the brother probably wouldn't be a very pleasant date.

Is any blind date ever pleasant, though? Probably not. At least not for Mark.

Then, Daisy steps back and reveals a tall, tan, bleached-blonde, positively Californian man with a dazzling smile and Mark decides that maybe he'd better rethink that part.

"H-hi, I'm-" he starts to squeak, feeling more timid than he'd ever been in his entire life, but he's already being interrupted.

"Mark! Yeah! I'm Bryce, I'm so glad you decided to go out on a limb with me, Maureen said you'd be reluctant and- bye Daisy- and I know you like the Life Café, or at least she said that was your favorite place to eat and- no we're taking a right here-"

Nevermind. His first assumption was correct. As breathtaking as this man was, he was already jabbering his ear off, and the chances of his good looks winning over their incompatible personalities was growing slimmer by the minute. Sighing, Mark allowed Bryce to put one of those muscled arms around his shoulders as they walked, keeping his head down and trying to smile and nod at all the right places.

It was going to be a long couple of hours.

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The blonde man is fiddling with his camera in his lap as they wait for the bill to arrive at their, feeling more than slightly put out. As amazing as it is, Bryce is still talking, and at this point he's pretty much tuned him out. He didn't eat a whole lot, but he still feels like he should pay for his half since he's going to have to let the guy down as it is.

The problem is, Mark has never been good at breakups. Hell, he'd probably still be with Maureen if she hadn't decided to play for the other team. All he wants to do is please people, and Bryce seems to have taken a liking to him. That, or his amazing ability to listen- or not- for hours without once telling him to shut. Mark's willing to bet his scarf that Bryce gets dumped on his ass a lot for that particular reason. It's gonna sting telling this guy, whose so friendly yet so, so aggravating, that he doesn't want to see him again.

Finally, Jimmy returns with their bill and Mark tips him a few dollars, giving him a mock glare when he winks at the pair of them. "Thanks," he mumbles, glancing up in mild surprise to see that Bryce has stopped talking and is just staring at him dreamily now.

"When do you think we can do this again?" the other man asks, reaching across the table to put his tanned hand on Mark's paler one, making him seem albino in contrast. The filmmaker flinches, pulling away and settling his hand on his camera once more as he hastily stands up.

"I- I gotta- Bryce? I'm sorry, I have to go."

He's never run away from a situation so fast.

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"I take it your little date with Maureen's boy toy didn't go so well?" Roger is smirking at him as he tunes his Fender, perched on their metal table in jeans and his leather jacket. He's getting ready to go to his band practice with The Civilians, a band that's hardly a month old and dependent entirely on Roger at the moment to keep it going.

Swallowing a groan of frustration, the smaller man merely grunts at this, looking down. His cheeks are heating and it's useless to try and stop the blood from rushing there at this point. "… I ran away," he admits after a moment, voice muffled as he presses his face into the couch cushions.

"You what?" The slightly off-key chords streaming from the Fender stop abruptly. Mark can practically feel the mischievous smile spreading across his friends face from where he lays, unable to see him. It doesn't matter. He knows Roger well enough to know what he's doing right now. He's sitting there, grinning and trying to restrain his laughter until Mark repeats himself. He heard him the first time, probably perfectly. Roger has ears like a hawk. But he wants to hear Mark say it again.

"I ran! Happy?" he huffs, sitting up to glare in the rocker's direction. Only Roger is somehow much closer than he thought, and they end up bumping noses painfully. He backpedals, rubbing at his face. "He asked when we could do it again and I up and left."

"Why? I thought he was supposed to be super hot or something. That's what Maureen told m-"

"STOP! Stop mentioning her! I'm going to KILL Mo!" Mark gripes, hands flailing about in those spastic motions of his that Roger secretly thinks are so damn cute. "He was annoying. Nice and all but we… sort of clash. Not that he wasn't hot…" A sigh escapes him, longing evident in his tone. Maybe he should have waited until he fucked the guy to make the final decision- but wait, no, he has morals. "I mean, I didn't want to lead him on! We weren't going anywhere! I couldn't even get a word in edgewise, he's SUCH a god damn chatterbox-!"

This is the part where Mark ceases to use actual words and submits to the urge to simply growl in frustration, waving his hands about to emphasize his point. Roger simply watches this for a few moments, amused, before he interrupts.

"You wanna come to practice with me?"

"… Why?" Mark doesn't bother asking where that came from. Roger Davis has been an unpredictable character since he met him; he might know him well, but not enough to get in his head.

"Partly because you had a shitty date, partly because you look bored and partly because I think you might be into one of my drummers. He likes the submissive type." He smirks, and then he's turning towards his guitar again, starting to pack things up. Before Mark can even object to his previous implication, Roger has looked him straight in the eye and asked, "Well? Interested? I'm leaving now. Follow me if you're coming."

And against his better judgment, Mark is scurrying after him out the door and down the stairs, yelling at him to let him catch up. And Roger is laughing all the way there, because he knew that if anything would make his friend come it was the promise of sex.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

"You're Mark?"

Mark already doesn't like the way this guy is eying him already, and he's only been here for an hour. Travis, the drummer Roger had been talking about earlier, is not what he expected. He's average height and stocky, with a muscular build and track-mark free arms, unlike Roger's and most of the people he's played with in any band before. Cautiously, he begins to hope that this stubbly-chinned man with the disconcerting gaze might be worth getting to know.

"Yeah. Hey," he said, smiling and shoving his hands in his pockets. His cheeks are starting to feel hot again as he remember what Roger said about him: "he likes the submissive type". Was that why he was staring so blatantly at the filmmaker now? Was he imagining him in unspeakable positions, tied down and begging and cheeks hollowed ou-

Woah there. Mark blinked and forced the images out of his mind, shaking his head slightly. "I'm, uh, I'm Mark," he continued, sticking out a hand tentatively. "Roger's roommate?"

"Yeah, he talks about you all the time." There is a predatory glint in Travis' dark eyes now, he's positive of it, and he swallows hard as the other man takes his hand in a firm grip, caressing the back with his thumb. "I'm Travis." He glances back, dark hair rippling as he turns to look over his shoulder at the band starting to set up behind him. Roger looks impatient. "Hey, we can finish this after practice, right?"

All Mark can do is nod, still red in the face, and he must be wearing one of those goofy smiles Roger's always making fun of because the guitarist is laughing silently at him over Travis' shoulder and Travis is staring at him in a way that makes Mark think he's being mentally undressed.

The filmmaker runs a hand through his blonde hair and bites his lip, a mixture of anticipation and slight fear running through him. It's not as though he has any experience with men, and form the way Travis is looking at him he might be saying differently by tomorrow. Wondering if he's ready, then feeling like a teenaged girl for thinking that way, Mark finds a seat and makes himself comfortable.

And they play.

The Civilians aren't half bad, but it's clear that the only one who knows what the hell he's doing is Roger, who Mark can't help but notice looks as sexy on stage as he always has. He should probably feel awkward thinking that way, but he can't deny the truth of the matter. Roger has that edgy rockstar look, with the bleached hair and the tattoos and the studs in his ears and the eyeliner smudged around his smoky green eyes, making them stand out in his face. Mark can't help it if he looks good enough to eat in all of that. It's not his fault his libido is so out of control.

By the time they've finished, Mark is fiddling with his camera, polishing the lens over and over with the hem of his red and blue sweater. Listening to Roger play is a soothing experience after years of living with him and having to deal with the sound of his guitar at the oddest times of day, from three in the morning to eleven at night. Mark hardly notices Travis approaching him until he's rested a large hand on his thigh, making the smaller man jump.

"Holy-! Oh, hey," he splutters, recovering quickly and thanking every deity he could think of that he hadn't dropped his camera. "I- I thought practice went well…"

Travis snorts, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "Well, at the very least Alex didn't kiss Roger's ass the WHOLE time. That's an improvement. But I don't want to talk about practice…" He sidles closer, that hand on Mark's thigh moving a bit higher and causing him to shiver. "What do you say you come back to my place…?"

Mark simply nods, afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he opens it. He casts a nervous glance back at his roommate, who watches with an unreadable expression as he's dragged eagerly out the door of the community center by the wrist. Roger doesn't look entirely happy about this development- but Mark shakes his head again. If Roger didn't like the idea of him having sex with his drummer, he wouldn't have dragged Mark to practice in the first place.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

"Calm down! This one is going to go well I PROMISE."

"Mimi! You can't promise me that!" Mark is feeling slightly hysterical. He doesn't fucking WANT another blind date! Not again! Not after Maureen, and Roger's horrible suggestion.

"It's not my fault you decided that you weren't going to screw that Trevor guy-"

"Travis!" he snaps, looking down in shame.

"Whatever. Jason is a great guy, Mark, I promise. He's not just looking for a quick fuck. He's really sweet, and cute, and- hell, I'd date him if he wasn't gay!" The Latina is pleading, smiling at Mark as if her full, pouty lips are really going to convince him. The problem is that Mimi has always been irresistible, and as Mark knows, he's a pushover.

"M'still nervous…" After Travis, Mark doubts he's ever going to feel safe with men he's never met before again. He can still remember the other man's incredulity, scrawled clearly across his face, when Mark jerked away the moment he reached down to cup the filmmaker through his pants.

"_What? I'm getting you off." His tone is almost condescending._

"_I just- aren't we going a little fast?" Mark asks skittishly, leaning away. He knows this is a lame excuse, as Travis had made his intentions obvious from the start and he had already accepted his offer- but the implications hadn't fully hit him until well into their make out session against the door, until he was already groaning, until Travis had tried to take it to the next level._

"_I'm not looking for a boyfriend," the other man says drily, pressing his lips back to Mark's neck JUST THERE, and Mark has trouble remembering how to breathe without squeaking. "Are we doing this or what?"_

"_M-may… Maybe…" he says reluctantly, but as the taller man moves to spread Mark's legs and slip one of his own in between, kneeing the bulge there lightly, he yelps and backs away. Shit. Shit, he IS a teenaged girl and he is so not ready for this. For some reason Roger's face flashes through his mind, that raised eyebrow and unreadable frown as he left the community center, and he's stammering apologies as he picks up his camera and throws his scarf around his neck hastily, leaving Travis staring after him with eyes even darker with frustration._

"Don't be," Mimi reprimands, straightening his jacket. She insisted on forcing him into something other than just an old sweater and corduroys for this date, saying something about how Jason deserved better than a half-assed wardrobe on the guy he'd agreed to meet for dinner. "You'll be fine. I think you two'll have a lot in common!"

"I wouldn't bet on that," Mark says, frowning. "How many awkward, weird gingery-blonde filmmakers can possibly live in one city?"

The younger girl just laughs and runs her hands down his chest, smoothing out wrinkles in the dark blue sweater he's chosen to wear anyways under his jacket. "Just trust me."

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Jason Rivera is perfect, or so Mark is convinced.

This is very possibly the best date Mark has ever been on. That isn't saying much, seeing as most of his dates were with Maureen back when he was twenty and in denial about his sexuality at skeevy bars and strip clubs. In fact, he's never had a REAL dinner date at a REAL restaurant before. Every so often he looks around, hardly believing he's here.

The walls are papered with pattern of thorny wild roses on a near-golden background, the lighting- from a couple of large crystal chandeliers- dim and the atmosphere relaxed and comfortable. All around him other people, couples or friends or businesspeople in suits, suitcases resting on the floor by their feet, were dining at identical tables, talking and laughing quietly over their food. A single candle, unscented, sits on the table between them and before him is a classic spaghetti and meatball dinner date meal, smelling delectable and making his mouth water.

Mark is pretty sure he hasn't had food this good since he moved out of his parent's house the moment he turned eighteen, but he's finding it hard to concentrate on the food when he's so fascinated with Jason. The man before him is as Hispanic as Mimi, a light Spanish accent on all of his words, and his speech flows almost musically because of it. There's another thing Mark never knew about himself, but he sure as hell does now- guys speaking Spanish make him hard. He's lucky his lap is under the table, because the erection straining at his zipper is probably obvious.

"I've had such a good time tonight," Jason says, smiling, and Mark can almost forget that same undecipherable look that Roger threw his way as Mimi dragged him out of the loft for this date. "But, Mark? I just wanted to tell you something."

"Yeah, I'm having a good time too, surprisingly. I haven't had much luck with the whole blind date thing," Mark says, smiling back. He twirls his fork in the spaghetti, taking a small bite. For some ridiculous reason, he feels self-conscious eating in front of this man. Almost as if it might disgust him, make him run away, if he did it the wrong way somehow. "What is it?"

"I… Look, I know I agreed to come on this date with you and all but… I'm not actually gay." Jason has the sense to look slightly guilty at this, bowing his head, ebony locks shimmering in the dim light. His expression is apologetic as he looks up from under his long, long eyelashes at Mark, whose fork is halfway to his mouth and not looking like it's about to get any farther.

He freezes, eyes widening. "… So…" What else can he say in this situation? Jason was a photographer, a technical genius and the only man Mark had felt connected to since this fiasco began. For once, he'd thought that maybe he'd get lucky. But apparently not.

"I'm sorry!" The other man grasps at his hand across the table. "I know, I shouldn't have- Well, I didn't exactly lie. I'm bisexual," he clarifies, practically begging Mark to look at him with those large brown eyes. "I told Mimi that I was gay because… I wasn't ready for a relationship with a woman after my last breakup, and I didn't have an explanation when she asked me why I was always hanging around the Cat Scratch Club. I didn't want her to think I was being a horny guy."

"But you were being one," Mark pointed out somewhat dazedly. He can feel the disappointment barreling towards him, the despair. He really wasn't ever going to find the right guy, was he? No, of course not. He's Mark. He's always alone. For now, though, he was simply surprised. "Do you- You like Mimi?"

He nods, averting his eyes, and Mark sighs and sucks up his hurt like he always does, biting it down until later. "I think you should ask her on a date," he says quietly after a moment. "She's… I think she'll say yes. It's worth a try."

It takes him a few tries to give Jason a smile that doesn't look forced, but he manages it and they finish their meal in a more solemn manner, conversation stilted with awkwardness.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

It's becoming a common occurrence these days for Mark to find himself laying out on the couch with his head in Roger's lap, eyes closed as the guitarist runs his fingers through his short hair and just listens. Normally Mark is a quiet person, but the past few weeks have been hectic and he needs to get it all out before he explodes. At least Roger says so, and sometimes he thinks he can literally feel the pressure building up inside him in preparation for some kind of explosion.

"You really liked him, huh?" Roger asks sympathetically, rubbing the smaller man's temples. For once in his life he's restraining his insane urge to laugh at Mark's misfortune, and it's harder than it looks. He knows, though, that Mark needs this. He never vents, and if he's going to let Roger and only Roger listen to him ramble on about his problems, then so be it.

He's always fancied himself a therapist anyways. Fuck it if Maureen always said his advice was horrible- he was the first to tell Mark that he though Maureen was into chicks, and he should dump her on her ass. Mark hadn't listened and he'd ended up being dumped for a woman, something he was quick to point out when the blue-eyed man seemed skeptical about one of his quirkier suggestions. It usually earned him a punch on the arm, but it was worth it.

"I know it's stupid…"Mark sighs, tapping his fingers on the fabric of the couch and leaning his head further into Roger's touch. "I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. He just seemed so- PERFECT, I mean fuck, he was attractive AND smart and he showed me his camera- I'm an idiot."

"How does it make YOU stupid if HE was the one who lied and said he was gay in the first place?" the songwriter asks, frowning. Mark's logic has never made a lot of sense to him, but this takes the cake.

"I'm not cut out to have a love life," he shrugs, sounding hopeless. "I'm going to be alone with my camera forever. Fuck this. I'm so humiliated…"

"Don't be a drama queen. You just haven't found the right person. Or maybe you have and you just haven't realized they're there yet," Roger says sagely. He pinches Mark's cheek, teasing. "God, I forgot how dramatic you can be. Maureen's rubbed off on you."

The wheels have started to turn in Mark's head at the first part of his sentence, though, and he misses the second part as he starts to think about it. _Someone right in front of me… Haven't realized it yet…_ He remembers the way he felt when Roger's lips pressed against his own, the way he felt when the guitarist wrapped his arms around him and comforted him, the way he protected him and the mischievous grin he couldn't help but love on his roommate's face. He thought of the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest now as Roger's fingers danced over his head and soothed his brewing headache.

"Fuck!"

"What?" Roger asks, raising an eyebrow in confusion as he stares down at Mark with those gorgeous green eyes. _Fuck fuck fuck double FUCK, not Roger! Anyone but Roger!_

"Maybe I'm just not good jack off material…" he says, trying to make a joke just to distract himself. His voice sounds a little off, but he can't bring himself to care. No, God, he can't be- even in his head he can't say it. No. Not Roger. Fuck.

To his surprise, Roger instantly launches into a protest. "Mark! Yes you are!" And he doesn't know what to say to that kind of statement. They lapse into an awkward silence, his eyes slowly opening to look at Roger cautiously. His face is as red as Mark's feels, but he stares back unblinking.

"What… do you…?" he chokes out, and Roger looks away at last as he mumbles an answer.

"I… sort of… When- you remember when you came to the city? Then. At first, I mean, not- not recently! God! Nevermind! The point is, you're attractive, Mark, you just have shitty luck," he says, regaining his composure and looking at Mark seriously. The filmmaker nods, lips twitching up. He almost wants to pursue the subject, heart hammering, but Roger interrupts his thoughts.

"Do you want to hear something I'm writing? It's not done, but I like what I have so far…" Roger trails off uncertainly, something that's almost as rare as his offer. Mark sits up and widens his eyes in shock. It's well known that Roger doesn't let anyone hear his songs before they're absolutely perfect, which he can't really understand since he can usually hear the strains through the thin walls as he's writing and throwing his notebook around in frustration, cursing as Roger is apt to do.

The point is, this is a privilege and he'd better grab onto it while he can. "Oh- oh, sure! Go ahead, I'd love to hear it," he says, beaming as Roger gently pushes him off of his lap and goes to pick up his acoustic from its stand in the corner, strumming it once in a warmup.

The rest of the night is spent listening to Roger play, slowly fading into talking and eventually a wrestling match that leaves them both laughing and sweaty. And Mark can already tell that this is going to be a problem later; for now, though, he'll let it go. He can always deal with it in the morning.

_He's been right fucking in front of me, this WHOLE fucking time- how didn't I see it before?_

_Fuck._


	6. To Faggots, Lezzies, Dikes

**A/N: Guess what! I was on a roll so I decided, why not type this one up too? So you just got two chapters in a really short time. Rejoice, for this is not going to happen all that often. I hope you guys are still reading! Review please! :D**

**Disclaimer: RENT isn't mine no matter how many times I pray to the God I don't believe in that I'll wake up and it will be… Damn.**

**Chapter Six: To Faggots, Lezzies, Dykes**

Sometimes Mark almost wished that he was HIV positive, if only to understand his friends at Life Support a little bit better. It was a morbid thought, one that he never voiced aloud, knowing how dark it sounded- but if one had spent as many days as Mark with the group, listening to them talk and share those knowing, heartbreaking smiles, they might understand. Although he was always welcome there, he'd never stop feeling as though he was out of place.

He wasn't struggling with that sense of life and death; he wasn't terrified whenever he caught a cold, knowing it could easily kill him; he didn't have that pressure bearing down on him all day every day. And until he did, if he ever did, he wasn't going to feel that sense of camaderie that all of them seemed to share.

This one hadn't been any more special than the ones he'd attended before, but Mark found himself slightly more at ease with Jimmy there as well. The younger man was the only other negative person at the meeting, having come for an unknown reason, and he'd smiled in Mark's direction sympathetically as though he could feel the awkwardness emanating from him. He, at least, understood what Mark was feeling as he gazed upon all of the friends he'd made at Life Support, wondering if they'd all be back for the next meeting and, if they weren't, if they'd still be alive.

That was the scary thing- he couldn't stop thinking about it, even as he walked home by himself with his camera in hand. Sometimes a person would simply stop attending meetings. The rest of them would look around nervously when that happened, no one voicing out loud what was on everybody's mind: had they simply chosen not to come? Were they busy that day? Or had they died? There was no way to tell.

And then, even then, he couldn't stop thinking about Roger and his revelation. Things had become so complicated. Those little gestures he'd always made, or that Roger had always made, had completely different implications- he couldn't stop blushing whenever the songwriter slung an arm around his shoulders now, or when he nuzzled against the filmmaker's neck affectionately, laughing softly into his ear. He couldn't stop feeling guilty whenever he sat too close to Roger on the couch, practically in his lap, or wrestled around with him over stupid things like whether or not Roger's band sounded like shit or whose turn it was to take the hot shower.

It was too stressful to think about. He'd caught Roger giving him weird looks more than once the past week when he shied away or made an excuse and bolted out of the room. Frowning, eyebrows crinkling together in confusion. Mark doesn't want to think about it, though, because when he does his mind whispers to him traitorously just how cute Roger looks like that and he despairs all over again that he'll ever manage to love someone who loves him back.

Sighing, he wound up his camera again, pointing the lens down a shadowy alley and pausing at the mouth of it. He shivered, slightly chilled in the September breeze, and drew his worn plaid jacket around him as he squinted into the darkness. Was that-? Yes, it was. Lying on the ground in a shuddering heap was a man, looking to be about his age.

He hesitated for a moment, knowing that what he was about to do was very, very stupid in a city like New York, especially in the slums- but, fuck, he was Mark. He just wanted to help. Biting his lip, Mark quickly strode into the alley, kneeling on the ground beside the man and gently placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, are you okay-?" he started to ask, and very suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his side as he was kicked in the ribs, thrown to the pavement painfully. He curled around his camera instinctively, protecting it even as his glasses were thrown off of his face and his head hit the side of the nearest brick building with a crack.

Two large figures stood over him, and he opened his eyes wide, terrified and unable to make out their distinct features in the darkness. "Hey, you're one of those faggots from the community center," one of them sneered, hunching down and grabbing him by the collar of his sweater, jerking him into a sitting position. "One of the diseased faggots, huh?"

Mark opened his mouth, still dizzy and pain radiating hotly from the back of his head, and tried to speak, but no words came out. He choked on the syllables, frozen as his eyes flickered from one man to the other, and back to the third on the ground who was stirring, sitting up to reveal his split lip and pained expression. It was Jimmy, his headband grimy and speckled with blood, holding his side. Mark vaguely hoped they hadn't hurt him too badly, but his attention was soon forced back to the other men.

"You don't have to answer us… we know. We saw you come out," the other man, slightly taller than the first, snorted. "Little queer, aren't you, you fucking faggot-"

Adrenaline had begun to course through the filmmaker's veins, and he waited a moment until the world stopped spinning to lurch to his feet, grabbing Jimmy's hand and trying to run. It was useless; the Asian man was quick to get up and dart out of the alley, but before Mark could reach the mouth again he was tackled to the ground, landing heavily with a yelp on his hands and knees.

There was probably blood, he knew, because he could feel bits of gravel and broken glass shredding his palms and sinking through the worn fabric of his corduroy pants. Open wounds in a dirty, disgusting alley like this in a city full of disease- just fucking perfect. The pain gave him a clarity he hadn't had before, though, and he choked out a, "JUST GO!" when he saw the young waiter hesitate at the mouth of the alley, looking as though he might try and go back for Mark.

Obediently, Jimmy frowned and ran- one of the men went after him, yelling, the other sending a kick to Mark's side that he didn't see until it was too late and he was crashing to the ground, gasping and already attempting to scramble to his feet. "Fuck-!"

"Ah ah ah, you're not going anywhere," came his smug attacker's gruff voice. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw that it was a greasy-haired, light-skinned man, six feet tall and easily stronger than the filmmaker judging by the wiry muscle in his biceps as he pinned Mark's wrists to the wall beside him. His eyes were dark and menacing, a smirk gracing his lips that frightened the smaller man. "I'm not done with you. You got AIDS, faggot?"

Violently shaking his head no, Mark struggled to no avail, kicking desperately out towards where the man's crotch might have been. It was useless; he shifted and stood, dragging Mark up off the ground with him and slamming him against the building, making him wince.

"Get the fuck off!" Mark yelled, striking out with his free hand only to have it pinned once again to the wall along with the other. He glared helplessly, head throbbing, whole body thrumming with panic- _Where's Roger when I need him?_- and unable to do a thing about it. "What the fuck do you want? I don't have any money, I don't- you can't get anything from me!"

"No?" Frowning, the attacker glanced at the camera lying on the ground and Mark's glasses beside them. He must have decided they weren't worth it, because he turned back to Mark with a sneer. Before he could continue, however, the injured blonde viciously kicked out at his knee, causing it to buckle as he howled in pain.

"You little SHIT!" he hissed, tightening his grip on the filmmaker's wrists painfully and causing him to whimper, head swimming. "You think you can do that?" His breath is hot on Mark's ear as he leans in and growls, raising the hairs on the back of Mark's neck. "I think you need to be punished…"

A whole new brand of panic is rising in Mark's chest as he's forced to his knees, wincing at the raw feeling of the hard pavement scraping his skin- yep, he was right, his pants have torn at the knees and they should be cold but instead they're hot, stinging and probably bleeding crimson stains onto the ground. He isn't focused on the pain, though; he's focused on the sound of the man's zipper being pulled down, the button being popped, and oh fuck he hopes he's not really going to do this to him, no, he can't do this to him-!

"I'll bite!" he says, voice high pitched with fear because he can't control it anymore, and he struggles not to raise his eyes to meet his attacker's, struggles not to break down and beg him. Mark is too tired to fight back, bleeding and aching and nearly blind as he is, and even with the renewed surge of adrenaline the idea of being forced to suck on this guy's cock gives him he doesn't think he'll be able to get away without being hurt, or maybe even killed.

"Oh, you won't," says the man, cruel laughter in his voice. Mark feels him shift and suddenly there is something cool and sharp at his throat. "I think this will be a good enough deterrent. Now. Let's get back to business…"

"Mark? MARK? Who- GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM YOU FUCKING BASTARD! NO!"

Roger's angry screaming has never been such a welcome sound, and Mark sobs in relief as his roommate charges and bowls the man above him over, knocking the knife out of his hand. It draws blood as it slides lightly across the skin on his neck anyways, but not enough that Mark is concerned. In fact, Mark is on the move now, shooting up to his feet the moment he can without even thinking about it and backing away, nearly stepping on his own glasses as he keeps his eyes trained on the slightly blurry fight before him.

It's a tangle of limbs and Roger's cursing, the blows he's raining down on the man with his fists practically audible in the cool, still air. Mark scrabbles for his glasses, fingers numb and scraped raw as they brush the ground in search of them, finally finding the thick lenses and jamming them onto his face without cleaning them off, squinting through the smudges. He sees Roger's bleached hair clearly in the darkness, a shock of yellow-white, and his furious green eyes blazing as he snarls and continues to draw his fist back, on top of the other guy, slamming it down again and again.

"Mark come on! Let's go!" He turns in confusion to find Jimmy at the mouth of the alley, beckoning him anxiously, and then casts a glance back to Roger who has finally found resistance in the man beneath him, who is swearing and rolling away on the ground, backing further into the alley. There is no dead end to stop him from getting to his feet the moment he's free of Roger, pelting away as fast as is humanly possible. Mark manages to catch Roger's wrist in both hands before he can go running after his attacker, and although he's in no condition to be holding his enraged roommate back he DOES manage to make Roger turn and look at him in frustration.

"Mark I'm not just letting him get away with that- oh SHIT you're bleeding!" Roger's face goes white as he jerks his hand away, wiping it off on his jeans and inspecting it frantically for open wounds. When he doesn't find any, he exhales the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and stands, pulling Mark into a fierce hug. "God, I can't believe this- that ASSHOLE, I'm not letting him get away with it, Mark, I'm going to find him! I'll kill him!"

"Roger just calm down…" he replies exhaustedly, licking his lips and tasting blood. Fuck. "Can we just… just go home…?"

"God. Yeah… I need to- Let's get you cleaned up," the guitarist says, wringing his hands and eyeing the wounds covering his friend warily. He'll have to be careful around so much blood, of course, but if anyone else tries to wrap Mark up in bandages he might go rabid. Roger doesn't trust anyone else to take care of his friend, and now, after what he's just witnessed, he probably won't be letting Mark out of his sight for the next month.

Tentatively, he wraps an arm around Mark's waist- even now, hurting and ready to pass out, Mark can't help but lean into that touch and feel guilty for doing it- and takes slow, short strides out of the alley, supporting him. Mark can't believe how shaky he is. Is it just him, or is the whole world tilting on its axis, fading to grey and then back again? He groans, resting his head on Roger's shoulder, feeling sharp pain shoot from the lump on the back of it. "Fucking hell…"

"You're gonna be okay," Roger mutters, alarmed at the way Mark is practically a dead weight against his side as he tries to walk. There is a sticky liquid seeping through his shirt on the shoulder Mark's head is resting on, but he tries not to think about it. "It's gonna be fine, we just need to wash you off and… Mark?"

"Should just go back to being straight," Mark is saying under his breath, laughing slightly hysterically. "So much easier…"

As they reach the young Asian man still waiting, watching with large, fearful eyes, Roger allows him to slide up to Mark's other side and help him carry him. "Mark, don't say that. It's gonna be fine. You are who you are! And they can fucking deal with it!"

But the filmmaker isn't listening. In fact, after several more of these dark mutterings and the torturous trip up the stairs to the loft, he's passed out on the couch. Roger dismisses Jimmy when he's sure that Mark isn't about to bleed to death, and he holds the filmmaker's head in his lap, his own head in his hands. He has a fantastic headache brewing.

If something had happened to his Mark, what would he do? Something COULD have happened tonight, if he hadn't gotten there quick enough. If Jimmy hadn't come for him, he would have been clueless. Mark could have been killed, could have been raped, and Roger would have done nothing to stop it.

And that's the scary part.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Mark is less than eager to go to the Life the next morning, but Mimi sounded so excited on the phone that he can't help but give in. He touches his fingers lightly to the black eye he's sporting, ignoring the sting of his cut fingertips, and walks with Roger through the glass doors. His roommate has been watching him like a hawk all morning and although it's somewhat irritating- he's not a CHILD, he can take care of himself- he's sort of touched that Roger cares so much about his well-being.

_Stop it!_ He chides himself. _You're not helping yourself by hoping. He's just being a good friend. Roger's always been overprotective like this._

Mimi is grinning widely as they enter, hand clasped tightly in none other than Jason's, but it slides off of her face as she spots Mark. "Oh my God! Mark! Are you- what happened?" She looks like Roger had when he'd found him, ready to spit fire, and the filmmaker is reminded of why he never wants to get on the Latina's bad side.

"It's nothing- Roger'll fill you in," he stutters, looking down at the rich red of the carpet between his feet. The thing is, Mark doesn't like to think about what had almost happened too much- not only was it a horrifying experience, but he realizes now how helpless he had been. It's not like he hasn't always known how weak he is: the bohemians all have their hungry days, when their art comes before their own health, and he doesn't ever regret it. He loves it here in the city with Roger and Collins and Maureen and Mimi and Joanne. He doesn't have any desire to leave, settle down with a family or some bullshit like that. But…

Mark is ashamed. That's what it comes down to. And he's not about to relive the experience for his friends, watching their faces contort in rage and sympathy and fear for poor Mark. No. He won't do it, can't do it- and Roger seems to understand that, because he sighs and releases Mark to gather the rest of the bohemians and Jason around him, huddling close and murmuring through gritted teeth the events of the night before.

The filmmaker clutches his camera tightly, hanging onto it as though it will disappear if he loosens his grip the tiniest bit. His eyes roam the room, catching several curious stares and scowling at them before they quickly turned away, flushing in embarrassment. He's aware that he looks like a mess, thank you, and he doesn't need this reminder. But it can't be helped…

Out of nowhere, he is nearly thrown backwards by the force of somebody's hug. His arms snap around the waiter's skinny frame immediately as the breath is knocked out of him. "Jimmy? Hey…" He laughs, unable to contain his amusement at the young man's relief.

"You're okay? Thank God." Jimmy sighs, pulling back and surveying the paler man's wounds, looking him up and down. "I was worried."

"Thanks," he says sincerely, because it has been a long time since somebody who wasn't his close friend or a member of Life Support worried about him. "Fucking homophobes."

There is a quiet snort from somewhere beside him, and the other waiter- a short man with a sneer on his face, probably new because Mark has certainly never seen him before- mutters under his breath, "faggots". Mark frowns, blushes and returns his gaze to the ground. He's angry, of course, but he doesn't want to start anything, and even if he did he's in no condition to come out on the winning side.

A hush descends over the nearby customers, and Mark almost doesn't realize why until Roger's hand, easily identified by the tattoo on his forearm, flies out and catches the disgusted waiter by his collar. A woman stifles a gasp behind them. "WHAT did you just say?"

"Faggots," the man clarifies, sneer increasing as he glares up at Roger. There is a hint of fear in his eyes, but he's containing it well. Roger's expression is a scary one, and Mark feels the need to step in now before his roommate does something drastic.

"Roger, just let it go," he pleads, grabbing at Roger's arm, but the guitarist shakes him off, keeping his darkening green eyes trained on the face of his captive. "Roger!"

"Mark shut up. This guy's being an asshole to you and you already had a shitty night," he growls, tightening his vice grip on the guy's collar. "Apologize. NOW. Or I'm going to have to kick your ass!"

"We'll report you to the manager!" Mimi adds, handing Jason her purse and crossing her arms, blue-painted nails tapping against her arms impatiently. Collins, beside her, is the only one that looks calm; he doesn't stop to wonder why Maureen and Joanne haven't come to this meeting, because his mind is already racing with dread of what his friends might do to the man.

"I don't approve of your lifestyle," the waiter says, gritting his teeth. Jimmy frowns and slowly backs away from the situation, muttering about orders he had to fill, obviously just as angry as the rest of them. "I won't apologize for my opinion."

Roger practically hisses at him, shoulders tensing. "Say it again, I dare you," he breathes. This is one of those times where Mark gets flashbacks of the withdrawal days, when Roger was unpredictable and violent and as likely to punch him as he was to hug him and sob against his shoulder. Roger is a person ruled by his emotions, and right now he's fuming. "Say it the fuck again. See what happens."

Frowning, more than a little fear flashing across his face, the disapproving waiter backs down. "Fine. I'm SORRY," he mutters, glancing at Mark with a glare that shouldn't make him feel so self-conscious. "Let me go." He shifts his glare to Roger, who, upon seeing the pleading look on his roommate's face, reluctantly lets him go. He scurries away quickly, flustered, and leaves the bohemians behind him. Roger sends a scathing look after him.

"You didn't have to do that," Mark says as they all sit down, turning their attention to the new couple- Mimi's smile has returned as Jason presses a kiss to her neck, and she's giggling in a way Mark hasn't seen since she was with Roger- but he knows that he's smiling despite himself. Because Roger means more to him than he should, and the fact that he was prepared to throw down for the sake of his emotional well-being twice in less than twenty four hours is making him glow inside, warm and happy. He hopes it doesn't show on his face.

"Wanted to," Roger shrugs, resting his arm around Mark's shoulders again, and yep, those are butterflies in his stomach.

"I owe you one," he insists.

"One what? A blowjob? Because I wouldn't say no to one of those," Roger laughs, a wicked smirk on his face, and Mark is spluttering in embarrassment even as he turns away and tries to disguise the tent forming in his pants by shoving his camera into his lap. The butterflies are fluttering madly in his stomach and lower now, the tingling spreading-

Oh, fuck.

Roger doesn't even know what he's doing to him. Mark closes his eyes, choking back a whimper as dirty images pollute his mind. FUCK.

Mimi and Jason are raising their glasses, toasting their new relationship, and Mark thrusts his own glass into the air almost too enthusiastically. Anything, anything at all to get his mind off of the feeling of Roger's cock heavy against his tongue…

Vaguely, he wonders how he's ever going to keep himself from jumping his roommate.

And Roger just keeps that shit-eating grin on his face.


	7. You'll Get Over It

**A/N: Hey. Woah. ANOTHER CHAPTER. This one is actually a tiny bit graphic, only the first part but… I feel like I should warn you. Anyways. I hope you guys are still enjoying this! Thanks for the reviews I received on the last chapter! I love you all. *huggles* SO MUCH.**

**Disclaimer: … Did you hear? RENT isn't mine… I know. These are difficult times…**

**Chapter Seven: You'll Get Over It**

Mark made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as he slammed his pen down on the table, flipping his notebook shut in a huff. Thinking about it now, distracting himself from his raging hormones by trying to write another one of his crappy screenplays wasn't the brightest idea. For once he was home alone, the entire loft dim and silent except for his own breath and the sound of his pen scratching on the paper, and yet here he was with a mind bursting at the seams with pornographic images of Roger.

There's Roger sliding his hands up his shirt, that same wicked grin on his face that he'd been wearing at the Life nearly a week ago; there he is capturing Mark's wrists and pushing him roughly against the wall, tongue at his ear, mouth hot and wet on his neck; and there, his personal favorite, is Roger standing over him, calloused fingers in his hair tugging insistently as Mark swallows around his cock, thriving off of those hoarse moans that remind him so much of Roger's stage voice.

He pushes his chair away from his desk, fed up with his lack of progress, and hesitates only slightly before popping the button on his pants. No one is home anyways, and fuck, he's been horny for a week, jerking off in the shower and trying desperately not to imagine his best friend. Needless to say, it hasn't been working, and now everything he tries to write is turning into a porno.

So really, this is for the sake of his writing. That's how he tries to rationalize it as he bites his lip, letting his eyes fall closed as his hand wraps around his throbbing erection. For the sake of his art- he needs to have a clear mind to create, doesn't he?

It doesn't take much of an imagination to conjure up Roger's naked body in his mind- it isn't like he hasn't seen it before, they've been drunk together too many times to count and there was that one time that they took the hot shower together, tired of bickering over whose turn it was. Mark stifles a groan as he rubs the pad of his thumb over his head, swallowing it down the same way he wants to be around Roger's cock, and FUCK that's it, Roger talking dirty to him while he sucks him off-

This fantasy rapidly morphs into a new one, another of his favorites, and he isn't about to complain when it's getting him off either way. In his mind, Mark can feel those calloused hands running teasingly over his skin, brushing past his nipples on their way down his chest and hardly even touching his skin as they reach his waist. He can see the smoky lust in Roger's eyes as he gives him that playful smirk, cocking his head to the side almost curiously. "Tell me how you want it, Marky," he taunts, fingers dipping only slightly into his waistband. "What do you want?"

Whimpering, Mark thrusts into his hand, leaning back in his chair and holding onto it with one hand to keep his balance. He's clutching it so hard that his knuckles turn white, teeth gritted against the moans rising in his chest. He doesn't want this to be over so soon, he has to hold on…

"Please!" his fantasy-self whines, hands tugging on the songwriter's bleached hair and Roger just laughs, dark and soft and low. "Touch me…"

"I don't think I got that," Roger murmurs seductively into his ear, thrusting his tongue inside and ohhh… "Tell me EXACTLY what you want. What do you want?" His hand dips further into the filmmaker's boxers, lightly grasping at his erection and eliciting a choked gasp. "This?"

"God YES!" He mouths the words in real life too, grip tightening around his cock as his pumping accelerates. Everything is Roger Roger Roger and his eyes are squeezed shut, images of his roommate flashing past in a blur of color and lust and he's already spilling into his hand, almost embarrassed at how little it takes. Unable to stop himself he groans, low and long, "Roger…"

"Yeah?" Roger's voice calls back from the living room and FUCK HE'S HOME.

Mark scrambles frantically with his pants, having trouble buttoning them and yanking on the zipper so hard it almost breaks. His eyes are so wide they feel like they're about to pop out of his skull and he hurriedly wipes his sticky hand on the nearest option, the bed, wiping off the residue of his guilt on the sheets before the rocker can walk into his room with a curious expression.

"Didja need somethin'?" he asks, tilting his head, under the impression that Mark had been calling him but the filmmaker just freezes like a deer in the headlights. He's still flushed and the sweat is still beaded at his brow, and he hopes to whatever God there might be that Roger can't smell sex on him. Mark just shakes his head vigorously after a moment, squeaking, and Roger's expression becomes an amused kind of confused. "Alright then… Anyways, Travis said to tell you the offer's still open…" The green-eyed man makes a face, and Mark wonders again why he ever tried to set him up with his drummer if he didn't like the idea.

"Oh." That's the only thing he can think to say right now, still blissed out from his orgasm and blood thrumming in his veins. "Well… Okay."

"What's that?" The guitarist is pointing at his hand. Mark has a brief moment of panic, wondering if he hadn't managed to get all of the cum off on his bed, but realizes after a split second that they're just ink splatters.

"I was, uh…. I was writing-" another split second and he decides that it might be best to keep the details of exactly WHAT he was writing to himself. God knows that Roger makes fun of him enough for being lonely and horny, he doesn't need to know the details. Especially not when the characters are starting to become startlingly similar to the two of them…

Roger leaves after a moment of awkward silence and Mark throws himself on his bed, groaning as he buries his face in his pillow. Fuck. He NEEDS to get over this. He needs to get over it, and fast.

Mouth set in determination, the ginger-blond rewinds his striped scarf around his neck in a less disheveled fashion and rolls his shoulders as he sits up and grabs for his notebook and pen from his desk, getting back to work.

Maybe this time he'll be able to write something other than bad smut.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

He's not having much more luck two hours later, although at least this time it's simply writer's block. Roger is strumming at his acoustic in the living room, in the middle of composing some new song or other, and the sound is warm and familiar. After a while it morphs into Musetta's Waltz, much like all of his songs tended to do back before Santa Fe- the sound is so familiar and comforting that Mark wanders out to sit beside him, leaning his head on the guitarist's shoulder and closing his eyes.

"Did I invite you?" Roger asks, laughter in his voice. He doesn't make a move to dislodge his friend, instead setting the guitar down gently and moving one arm to wrap around Mark's shoulders lightly. This here, this is nice. It has nothing to do with either of their dicks, just the warm feeling Mark can't quite identify let alone begin to understand. He figures this question doesn't really deserve an answer and just nuzzles against Roger's arm, laughing.

"No, but here I am anyways," he teases just because he can. The songwriter brings his hand up to brush against his eye where the largest reminder of the attack the week before was beginning to fade, a smile playing on his lips. Mark has to struggle not to lean into that small touch, and he feels guilty all over again for thinking of his ROOMMATE that way.

"Well, maybe you're distracting me from my work?" Roger growls in his ear. That in itself is enough to make Mark half-hard again, but the way that calloused hand is creeping down his side isn't helping either.

Instead of acting flustered, Mark manages to snort incredulously. "Musetta's Waltz? Come on Roger, I know what the sound of you procrastinating is."

Roger mock glares at him, shifting slightly and putting Mark on edge- if he knows Roger at all, he knows that a wrestling match is about to ensue, and if Roger didn't already have an advantage he sure as hell did now when Mark was sporting an erection that he was under no circumstances going to let anywhere near his best friend- just as Mimi walks into the loft.

"Hey, guys," she says brightly, plopping down beside them on the couch. Mark breathes a sigh of relief, scooting slightly away from his friend and towards Mimi. "Doing anything fun today?"

"Does it look like it?" Mark asks, raising an eyebrow and gesturing to Roger's acoustic on the floor. The Latina sees it and rolls her eyes in empathy, having spent long enough with Roger to know how boring and moody he got when he was trying to write. Her painted fingernails tap on the filmmaker's arm as she pops her lips, cocking her head and glancing around for something to talk about.

"OH!" Suddenly she leaps to her feet, lithe and feline, and her finger is pointing directly at Roger. Brown eyes wide, she smiles a brilliant smile. "I almost forgot! Roger, I got you a date."

It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment that the bottom drops out of Mark's stomach- it might have been the moment those words passed their younger friend's lips, or it could have been when he saw the speculative look in Roger's eyes. Either way, he's having trouble breathing correctly. It's been a long time since Mark felt jealousy- that's an emotion that Roger practically has copyrighted around here- but here it is, sneaking up on him and giving him a firm punch to the chest, announcing its return.

As it is, he's helpless to do anything but sit back and listen to the words tumbling out of the Mimi's mouth, fast and excited. "My friend from work, Cherry- yes, that's her REAL name not her stripper name. She's single and looking and you're JUST her type. And if we all ganged up on Mark and made him try out the dating scene, then you can too," she adds, smiling at Mark as though he should be happy. As though he's getting his revenge for being pushed on all those blind date disasters.

And really, he should be. He should be really fucking amused with Roger's wrinkled nose right now, the uncomfortable way he's shifting around. Roger hasn't dated anyone since Mimi and it's been months. Mark should already have been pushing him into a club with the rest of the bohos to back him up, trying to get Roger laid at the very least. The problem is that now he wants to keep Roger for himself, and the way he sees it… That's being selfish.

It's never going to happen. He needs to get out of this… This unhealthy mindset and just move on already!

"What does she look like?" the guitarist asks guardedly, and Mark can understand why. Some of the women at the Cat Scratch these days are downright skeevy, probably crawling with diseases. Mimi may not have ever sold her body, but the same can't be said for every twenty year old stripper whose still got the energy to do that sort of thing.

"She's short, blonde, big tits, blue eyes," Mimi lists off, rolling her eyes. "You're such a pig. It doesn't matter what she looks like, Roger, I know you're going to like her! She's gorgeous and funny and she knows her way around a pair of handcuffs. And I know how you like those." The little flirtatious smile she adds at the end of that sentence makes Mark want to bang his head against the wall in frustration.

"Well… Alright," comes the gruff reply. "Maybe. But I make no promises about a second date."

Mimi squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. Normally Mark would be making sarcastic comments about the way her voice is piercing his eardrums, but right now he just feels numb and vaguely depressed. "You won't regret it!" she promises, flouncing right on out the door. Apparently she had gotten all she wanted.

Roger rubbed the remnants of her lipstick off his cheek, frowning after her. "Why does she STILL have our key?"

"Dunno," Mark mumbles, averting his eyes. He can't bring himself to look at Roger when all he can see is some buxom stripper in his lap, cooing at him as he kisses her on the neck.

DAMN his overactive imagination!

"I'm going out," he says, standing suddenly, and he doesn't care if he looks awkward because he always manages to make things awkward. Snatching his camera up off of the table where he left it, Mark is out the door in no time, biting his lip hard enough that it bleeds and leaving a confused Roger in his wake.

"But-" the guitarist protests, reaching after him, and withdraws his hand with a frown when the door slams. He can't figure out what's wrong with his roommate lately, but something is definitely up.

If only he could figure out what…


	8. I Know, Oh No

**A/N: Oh god. Do you know what? I don't think I'm going to be able to stop obsessing over this til its done now… Good for you, bad for my homework. xD Ahhh well. I hope you guys like this chapter! I got people nagging at me for it and I finally managed to plow through my writer's block JUST for you guys. REVIEW. PLEASE.**

**Disclaimer: I still, STILL, still still still, do not own RENT.**

**Chapter Eight: I Know, Oh No**

Roger is glad he accepted Mimi's offer. Cherry is HOT.

Well, she's sort of brutally honest and she has a stripper name, but at least she has the body to go with it. She's short in a cute way, pale, strawberry-blonde hair short as well, hanging around her face in an alluring way. Those big blue eyes remind him of Mark's, too, and that helps a little. He just hopes she isn't getting her hopes up for him to be "the one" who will sweep her off her feet, because if he's honest Roger knows his heart is elsewhere.

If only he could figure out exactly where…

She knows this, of course. In fact, the first thing she said to him the moment Mimi left them alone was, "I'm not looking for anything serious, so if you want to spill your little heart out to me, I suggest you leave now." Then, the smirk, so similar to his own that he can feel his eyebrows climbing into his hair.

"You know, I think we're going to get along," he eventually replied, stalking forward with a grin, and the rest of the night is spent in the bedroom. The pizza guy leaves the box at the door after waiting for half an hour and they end up with free pizza, good even though it's cold.

It's the beginning of a beautiful, sex-based relationship. Roger is smiling to himself just thinking about it.

Really, this is just what he needed. Cherry was the perfect distraction. Roger has been having those funny feelings about his roommate for a year now and he still can't figure out what they are, and they're really starting to get on his nerves- all he knows is, this girl's eyes are gorgeous and he's going crazy for her. Or, at least, for her body.

They aren't quiet about their relationship. Roger has never censored himself around anyone, and Cherry certainly isn't the type to do that sort of thing either. You could even ask Mark- he probably knew more about Roger's sexual history than the rocker himself remembered, between all those nights he came home high with some groupie of his band and the ones he spent drunk and depressed, fucking whoever asked for it as long as they didn't ask to stay the night. The poor filmmaker had probably been traumatized the past couple of days listening to the new couple go at it.

Speaking of Mark, he's awfully quiet today. All of the bohemians have gathered without much ado, and they're lounging around the loft as per usual on a Sunday. None of them have to work, with the exception of Mimi, Roger doesn't have practice, and everything is just calm, especially with the pot smoke wafting through the air from the joints Collins is passing around. The atmosphere is relaxed, air full of the quiet sounds of inhaling and giggling, and the rather explicit conversations that they always seem to be having amongst themselves.

Maureen is, unsurprisingly, babbling the most out of everyone. Something about a protest coming up in the next month that she's planned, but Roger isn't really listening. He isn't interested in hearing about the vegans living in Alphabet City. He's far too absorbed with Cherry's blonde hair tickling his neck as she sits in his lap, nuzzling back against his shoulder affectionately.

He isn't exactly complaining when her hand travels teasingly from his knee to his inner thigh, either, stroking slow circles into the fabric of his jeans. That's what they're about. Sex and lust and sometimes, like now, sometimes fun and games and friendship. Never love, but he doesn't need love to get him off. He just needs those blue eyes staring into his as she purrs exactly what she's going to do to him into his ear.

Ah, damn it. Now he's hard and from the smug smile on her face she knows it. Roger sighs, considering for half a moment allowing her to give him a handjob right here with all of his friends watching, but decides at the last minute that it might be distasteful of him to do so as a host.

Right. Well, Roger's morals have never been what one might call "normal".

"And I'm going to be dressed all in fake leather!" Maureen shouts, throwing her arms out over her head in excitement from where she's laying on the floor with her head in Joanne's lap. "And sequins! And-"

"Honeybear won't that be… Ah-" The lawyer shoots Mark a semi-desperate glance, biting at her lower lip in exasperation. "That'll cause a glare on camera, won't it, Mark?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," he mumbles, hardly even looking up at the sound of his name. Roger frowns, suddenly very aware that Mark has hardly said a word all afternoon. He hasn't touched the joint that's crumbling to the last bits of ash in Collins' hand now, nor has he taken even a sip of the Stoli that their friend so graciously blessed them with. It's… It's downright inhospitable and Roger ought to snap him out of it and tell him so, or else he's going to start whining and bucking up into Cherry's hand.

Feeling mischievous, he goes about getting his roommate's attention in a slightly less than conventional manner. "Hey, guys, who wants to take bets on how long it's been since Marky here has gotten laid?" The shit-eating grin on his face, the same one he always wore when he was teasing the blonde boy he'd been living with for over half a decade now, was a testament to what kind of mood he was in but the filmmaker simply continued fiddling with his camera, oblivious. He didn't even flinch at the mocking tone of Roger's voice.

Hardly discouraged, Roger catches Collins' eye and the older man just laughs, knowing exactly what the guitarist is up to and wanting no part in it, content to sit back and watch. The girls, however, seem more than eager to join in on the fun- Cherry and Maureen both giggle, smiles widening on their faces.

"I'll put five on since me," Maureen teases, leaning up to lightly press her lips to her girlfriend's. Joanne obliges happily, glad that she's being paid attention to for once, and probably relieved that Maureen has stopped talking about the upcoming protest.

"Hmm… Well, I don't know him that well but from what you've all said… I'm gonna go with two years," Cherry purred, blue eyes trained on Mark's face. No reaction. Huh… Roger frowned for a moment, not yet ready to abandon the game.

He got up, dislodging his sort-of girlfriend- who squealed and hit him lightly on the arm as she tumbled to the ground, falling on her ass with a huff- and moving to the other side of the couch, scooting right up to Mark and leaning in until his breath was hot on the filmmaker's ear. "Maaaaarky?" he growled, tempted by the sinful voice in his head that Mark liked to call his anti-conscience to lick the shell of his ear and only just resisting.

Either way, he gets the desired reaction. Mark practically shoots up off the couch, fumbling with the camera in his hands and staring at Roger with a flushed face, looking as though he's been caught in the act of something terrible. Roger doesn't see what he's looking so guilty about, but he likes that shade of red on the filmmaker's skin, and he snickers at the horrified face Mark is making as he glances around at everyone, eyes lingering on Roger and then down to Cherry, who has moved to hug Roger's knees as she kneels on the floor beside him.

"I- I'm going to- I'll be in my room," he mutters, voice on the verge of cracking and face beet red as he retreats hastily into his room. The eyes of the other occupants, all five of them, watch him go in confusion.

"What's wrong with him?" Mo asks, pouting. She looks as though she's about to go after him, and the guitarist internally winces at the argument he can feel brewing between the drama queen and her fiancée; however, Collins beats her to it.

"I'll talk to him," the philosopher says with a note of finality. Collins always gets the last word. And with that, they all returned to their conversation as the black man swept out of the room to interrogate their shiest friend about his sudden departure.

Roger didn't know what exactly it was he was feeling, but he's pretty sure it's something akin to frustration. He doesn't know how that's possible when this beautiful blonde is nuzzling at his thigh suggestively; all he knows is, Mark should be talking to him right now.

Cherry breathes against his zipper, though, and he rethinks that.

He'll talk to Mark later…

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

"Mark? Hey, man, what's up?"

The filmmaker's head snapped up at the sound of his ex-professor's voice, deep and powerful even at a low volume. Collins had always had a way of capturing a person's attention; perhaps that was why he was a teacher in the first place, though he claimed to hate the job.

"Col… I'm okay. Don't worry," he sighs, turning away and pretending to be working again. The fact that his camera is on his bed sort of detracts from the façade, but hey, that's his story and he's sticking to it now, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Mark doesn't like to broadcast his feelings to anyone, not even his friends, not even Collins.

Unfortunately, unlike Roger, Collins is perceptive. "Bullshit," he snorts, giving Mark a calculating look. "Something's eating you. You can tell me what, you know. I won't judge you or anything."

"I- I know," he says maybe a little too defensively, too uncertainly. The truth is, Mark knew he'd tell Collins if he told anyone at all about his dilemma. But he wasn't sure if he wanted anyone to know- if it were up to him, he'd take this secret to the grave.

Because really, it isn't his fault that every time he sees Cherry on Roger like that it feels like he's been kicked in the gut. Well, maybe it is a LITTLE- after all, he's the one that let it go this far, to the point where his morning showers are devoted to his roommate's face and his name on his lips, and where he's started thinking of him as "his Roger". But he can't help that he has a crush on the guy who keeps doing these things to him.

Comforting him. Being his friend. Joking around with him. Cuddling with him on the couch. Biting heads off when people insult him. And then, turning around and kissing him on the lips, whispering things into his ear just to make him blush, putting the dirtiest images in his head-

Mark doesn't want to think about it right now, especially with Collins in the room, eyebrows arched in amused skepticism. He just wants to be alone. Alone so he can mope over Roger, who went out and got a girlfriend and crushed any hope Mark might have had.

"I'll make you a deal," the philosopher says after a moment, his tone saying that he wasn't about to take no for an answer. Damn Angel for rubbing off on him. "I'll give you a riddle. If you solve it, I'll leave you alone. And if you can't then you have to tell me what's wrong."

"I-" The bespectacled man cuts himself midway through a protest, knowing that it's useless to argue with Collins when he's like this. "… Okay. Fine. Hit me."

"The more you take, the more you leave behind. What are they?" Collins asked, cocking an eyebrow. Mark feels his frown deepen. Shit. He's always been horrible with riddles. Prose, screenplays, that he can do, but things like poetry and riddles have always tripped him up. What could it be? Well lets see… The more footage he takes, the more he leaves behind. Right? But this is one of Collins' riddles and he doubts that it's directed towards him. Most people aren't as obsessed with film as he is. After five long minutes of pondering he simply huffed, glaring, signaling that he knew he'd been beaten.

"… I give up," he admits. The taller man gives him a smug smile, hands in his pockets as he closes his eyes and gives him the answer.

"The answer was footsteps. Come on, Cohen, that was an easy one." Mark just glared at him, feeling both clueless and anxious now. There was a sinking feeling in his chest. Well, fuck, now he had to tell… He could always try to lie but Collins was too perceptive to fool and Mark has always been an obvious liar.

Blue eyes roam the room helplessly, trying to find something- anything- that might get him out of this. There isn't much in his room to see, though; in all the years they've lived here, Mark and Roger haven't done very much to make the loft their own. If he were to leave, it would probably only take him a few minutes to pack everything up and be on his way. Just the way Roger had before he'd gone to Santa Fe- since then, Mark has always been slightly nervous whenever he came home to a silent loft. It's been made clear to him just how easy it is to leave the loft without a second thought, and Roger is impulsive. It could happen. Any day, it could happen…

He shakes his head to clear those thoughts from his head, looking one last time at the neatness of his room and the cardboard boxes filled with old reels of film in the corner with his projector leaning against the wall before returning his gaze reluctantly to Collins. The taller man is leaning against his doorframe expectantly, no intentions of leaving him alone, so he takes a deep breath and begins.

"I just- I don't like to-… I don't want to…" He tries to begin several times without success, closing his eyes and centering his thoughts before whispering more steadily, "Roger is distracting."

A large hand settles on his shoulder, patting him, and his eyes fly open again to see Collins giving him a knowing, sympathetic look. "So you finally figured it out?"

"Figured what out?" Mark asks, frowning, his hands clutching at his camera for dear life. If he lets it go he won't have anything to ground himself and he might float right off the face of the earth- or worse, he might have to live in the real world again, and then he'll have to feel that burning jealousy in his gut when he sees Roger and Cherry together, and the breaking feeling in his chest might kill him the next time he's hanging out with his roommate and realizes once again that they can't ever be anything else. "I just- I mean, he's- he's ROGER."

"You love him," Collins says as though it should be obvious, and Mark's heart almost stops beating.

"Love is a STRONG word-" he starts in a high-pitched voice, panicking. No no no he doesn't love Roger. Mark's never really been in love with anyone, and he isn't going to start with the one person he can never, ever have.

"Calm down, boy, alright! So you LIKE him," the black man snorts, crossing his arms. "Now, what are you going to do about it?"

"What am I- Collins! I'm not going to do anything!" Mark hisses, shocked. Who does his friend think he's kidding? Mark isn't comparable to a stripper. He knows from the noises he can hear from Roger's bedroom through the paper-thin walls every night that he's no match for that kind of girl. "I'll… get over it. Maybe it's just a phase." His small, unsure voice is unconvincing even to himself.

"I'll tell you what you're gonna do," Collins asserts, grabbing both of Mark's shoulders and shaking him lightly. His brown eyes are kind as they stare into Mark's. He wants his friend to be happy, and he thinks that this might be best for the both of them, anyways. Mark has always taken care of Roger; now, it's Roger's turn to do the same. "Halloween is coming up, and you need to have everyone over."

"We were already doing that, weren't we?" the filmmaker confusedly interjects, but the other man plows on with his plan.

"You're going to drag him off to the side, and I'll distract Cherry while you talk to him. Alone. And you're going to ask him how he really feels."

"Tom," Mark tries using his friend's first name warningly to no effect. "He doesn't have any feelings for me. I should know."

"You're too busy crushing on him to see straight!" Collins exclaims, laughing at the scandalized look on Mark's face. "Look. I think that you two would make a great couple. You're good for each other. Roger might not even know he's got a thing for you until you point it out. You KNOW how he is."

Mark does know how Roger is. He remembers April and Mimi and the way that Roger had denied his feelings right up until the first time they'd kissed. He knows all too well how the rocker in the other room is with women, but what about men? What about his best friend?

It's tempting, though, and he has to force himself to deny it. "Collins-" he begins, sighing, but the other man is having none of it.

"Don't 'Collins' me," he mocks, staring the paler man down. "You're going to do it. And that's final." With that he turns to leave, sweeping out of the room with a flourish and leaving a very confused, very anxious filmmaker gaping after him.

At least this Halloween would be interesting…


	9. Only Thing to Do

**A/N: People wanted more of this so I decided to give them more instead of studying for AP World. (Clearly this is more important :P) Anyways, HERE YOU GO! This chapter actually moves the plot AND leads into the fun chapter! Yeah, be excited. Review, guys! I love to see those reviews! P.S. I'm sorry this is so late… I've been swamped. And there's been drama. Not even going to bother explaining *sighs* Grrr…**

**Disclaimer: J-Lar owns RENT. (and tick, tick… BOOM!, the soundtrack of which I recently discovered!)**

**Chapter Nine: Only Thing to Do**

Wrinkling his nose, Mark leaned away from the acrid smell of nail polish with limited success, turning his face. He had a feeling that he might have had an easier time if the nails being painted weren't attached to him. "Mimi, how long is it going to take?" he whined. "I take it back. I don't want my nails painted… You can stop now."

The Spanish girl rolled her eyes and continued as though he hadn't even spoken, brushing the ebony polish carefully onto each cuticle and admiring the way that it sparkled in the candlelight. Another thing that Mark didn't understand. What was it with this chick and fire? He'd told her to plug in a lamp or something but NO. "It's Halloween!" she'd shrieked, and no one had dared cross her. So here they were in the dark, Mimi painting his nails and Maureen sitting on the other side of the bed giggling with the two of them with a beer tipped perilously in her hand.

Mark continued his grumbling, hands itching for the familiar weight of his camera. He hated it when one of his friends yanked the contraption out of his hands, telling him that he had an unhealthy attachment to the thing and he needed to live in the moment for once. It made him far too nervous- which, obviously, only proved their point. Tension was coiled in his gut now though, apprehension about the upcoming party and the task he'd been given, and it only made the compulsion to hide behind the lens that much stronger.

Joanne bustled in, Collins at her side. The two entered the room laughing raucously, and Mark looked up just in time to catch the can of beer thrown at him before it hit his face. "Hey!" he gasped, echoed by Mimi who grabbed his hand frantically to make sure he hadn't ruined his nails. The can was taken from him and cracked open by Maureen, her slender fingers gently holding it up to Mark's face. He leaned away, getting a strong whiff of the stuff and feeling almost as though he was already drunk. "Woah, that's strong..."

"That's the point! Can't be letting you go kiss your future boytoy without some liquid courage," Collins grinned, withdrawing the hand that had tossed the offending can. "How's he holding up?" he asked the abnormally quiet Maureen. Her eyes were trained on Joanne, though, lit up with a wide smile, and without much more warning than that she launched herself at the caramel-skinned woman with a scream of, "POOKIE!" Mark caught the beer she had carelessly dropped just in time, watching the scene with amusement.

Joanne caught her girlfriend with a surprised laugh as the air rushed out of her, hugging her around the waist. "Honeybear," she replied warmly, rubbing their noses together. Mark fake gagged in their direction, earning himself an absent bird flipped in his direction. Mimi scowled at him, inspecting his nails once more for damage, smacking him lightly upside the head as she yanked one of his hands back and started to brush carefully over the nails again, adding another coat to make them darker.

Collins looked at Mark with a reproachful scowl, carefully put in place. He had a plan. Everyone had been supportive of Mark's endeavor with Roger, everyone they'd told anyway- them being the currently smooching lesbian couple to his left- but the philosopher knew that the filmmaker would be a stuttering mess by the time he got anywhere near Roger. He'd overthink it and lose his cool and then they'd never get anywhere.

No, Mark quite literally needed a little liquid luck to make this work. That's what Collins was for.

"Drink that," he demanded, watching as Mark obediently tilted the can against his lips, wincing as the alcohol burned a trail down his throat. Damn. Maybe this was a little stronger than regular old beer after all. Before he could ask, though, Collins had already thrust another two at him and given him instructions to drink them as well before sweeping out the door, leaving Mark to Mimi's womanly wrath and the makeout session that was now commencing in the corner.

Mark just blinked after him, uncomprehending. Running a hand through his hair nervously, he took another sip of the strong drink and made a face. If Collins wasn't watching, why was he even bothering with this?

As Mimi swatted at him once again, swearing in Spanish and rolling her eyes, he took yet another sip and sighed.

Collins always gave him the best advice. He'd just have to trust him.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

Collins swept out of Mark's bedroom and right into Roger's one room over, another three cans still in the case he'd brought. Time for part two of his simple yet brilliant plan.

The philosopher wasn't stupid. He knew that Roger was, if not completely aware of it, crushing hard on his best friend- slash- roommate and he had been for years. Mark and Roger's friendship was more than close. It was bordering on a relationship, teetering on the frail line between the two, and all it needed was one good shove in either direction to be decided.

Before he turned Mark over to the most emotional of the bohemians by far, he should get him nice and mellowed out. The guitarist looked up from his guitar, looking annoyed.

"Hey. What's eatin' ya?" He tossed a can at him the same way he had to Mark, snorting at the similar fumble as Roger tried not to drop his guitar in the process of catching it.

"Cherry." He didn't snap, which was an improvement Collins supposed. Last time he'd asked that question had been the last time Roger's alarm clock had been seen alive. It's remains were probably still shattered in the corner of his room.

"What about her?" he asked seemingly casually. Internally he was documenting every one of the moody guitarist's moves, his gestures, his facial expressions. Right now he was scowling, looking more irritated than he had in a long time, and the philosopher felt a ray of hope shining in Mark's direction. If this was about Cherry, he could smell the impending breakup on the wind.

"I don't think we're going to last much longer," Roger shrugged, not looking all that sad about the fact. He paused before adding, "She's sleeping around. I don't want to get some funky disease. I already have one of those, thanks." His voice dropped to a mutter, one that Collins probably wasn't supposed to hear, as he cracked the tab on his beer and took a long swig. "Fucking whore..."

"That's a little harsh," he pointed out, not wanting his friend to abuse the girl too much. From what he knew of her, she'd been pretty chill. "What'd she do to deserve THAT?"

"She's not even coming up for the fucking party. She's got 'work'," Roger grumbled, clutching the can in both hands and glaring down at the mattress broodingly. He set it down and picked up his guitar, strumming a few tuneless chords before setting it back down in frustration.

Yep. Mark had this in the bag.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

The door closed behind the last of the partygoers, and Mimi's muffled giggles slowly faded away as the other two women supported her down the stairs. Collins had left half an hour ago, giving only a vague explanation that they were sure would become a spectacular story the next time they heard from him. The loft was trashed, bottles and empty chip bags strewn everywhere, crumbs and spills everywhere. It would be a bitch to clean up in the morning, but that was what Mark was for. He was the anal retentive one.

Roger sighed, running a hand over his face and sitting quietly for a moment. It's easy for him to forget sometimes that Mimi is the youngest of all of them by far; while five years didn't sound like a huge difference, it was when it came to experience in all areas of life- especially alcohol. And while Mimi knew a lot about sex and needles, her tolerance was little to nothing.

A hush fell over the loft. Mark watched his friend curiously, still feeling warm and giggly from the alcohol he'd reluctantly, foolishly partaken in. While Roger was feeling only slightly unsteady, Mark wasn't even sure he could walk a straight line without toppling over and passing out. He'd never really liked the idea of giving up his precious control for the sake of a few hours of "fun" that he doesn't even remember clearly and wakes up from aching. But this was a special occasion, and the buzz was a good ally when it came to the idea of... well... doing what he was about to do.

"Rog?" he asked eventually, draping his arms over the other man's shoulders and pressing his cheek to his neck form behind. "D'you like me? I like you," he giggled, slurring just slightly.

Roger struggled not to laugh, wondering if Mark even realized how drunk he sounded. "'Course I like you, Marky," he assured him, twisting around and holding Mark away by the shoulders to peer at him in amusement. He was blinking at him with those wide blue eyes, pupils dilated, looking up through white blonde lashes shyly with a goofy grin plastered on his face. Blink. Blink. Blink. It was positively adorable. He was almost like a little boy, so innocent...

Until, of course, he lunged forward and mashed their lips together awkwardly. Then the innocence became null and void.

"Woah! Slow down!" Roger spluttered, jerking away in alarm. The guitarist rubbed his calloused fingertips over his lips in slight disbelief, heart skipping a beat. Did Mark just...? MARK kissed HIM? Mark NEVER kissed him. Never. He must have been really fucking smashed. "What are you-"

Not to be deterred, Mark leaned in again and forcefully pressed his lips to Roger's again, tongue clumsily tracing over the lower one. The sensation shot straight through Roger's admittedly muddled brain to his cock, stirring it to half-hardness. Oh, shit. Not this again.

This was Mark, not his boy toy. He had a girlfriend for this... sort of... If Cherry even counted as a girlfriend. From what he could tell, she was sleeping with two other guys at least, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Roger had never been someone who liked to share, and that applied to any relationship he had. She hadn't even consulted him about it... What if she got some sleazy disease and passed it to him? He growled internally. He'd have to talk to her about that soon. Their flame was dying, he thought, and surprisingly he wasn't the least bit sad.

Belatedly realizing that Mark was still attempting to molest him, Roger pushed him gently away. The filmmaker was flushed and panting and- yeah, he was hard. But he was also avoiding Roger's gaze, and the rocker's eyes widened as he realized what was wrong. He was embarrassed, wearing that hangdog look of rejection that made Roger just want to scoop him up in his arms and ruffle his hair, telling him everything would be okay. "Hey. What is it?" he asked gently, eyes softening as he reached out and tilted Mark's chin, forcing him to look at him. "Tell me what the hell is wrong." He demanded.

"I- I like you," Mark mumbled, blue eyes ashamed as they reluctantly looked up into his. His hands twisted together anxiously; he looked like he was ready to dart right out of the room, but Roger's hands on him kept him rooted to the couch. He struggled to think through the alcoholic haze that had settled over his mind, making him stutter clumsily over his words. "I just- I like you," he finished lamely.

It took a moment for this to really sink in. Roger stared at him for a long minute, eyes widening fractionally as his heartbeat became erratic and he understood that Mark was serious. He meant it. He WANTED this-

And there he was leaning in again, lips touching Roger's tentatively, his hands clutching at his friend's sides. Roger's mind took note absently of the fact that he'd painted his nails black for the occasion, but he was too caught up in the extreme effort it took him not to push Mark back into the couch and molest him.

God, what was wrong with him? All of the repressed feelings he'd been having for months were rushing to the surface, igniting his skin, and every place Mark's pale skin touched his felt like it was on fire. His cock, already half hard, was rapidly swelling to its full length and he whimpered, unable to stop himself from deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue into the hot, moist cavern of Mark's mouth. The filmmaker shifted until he was straddling the rocker beneath him, breath coming in pants and whines as he leaned eagerly into the kiss, his hands finding there way into Roger's messy bleached hair to tug insistently, pressing closer.

Dizzily, Roger was slowly becoming lost to the world, mind quickly filling up with images of what he'd like to do with the hot eager body of the man currently thrusting down against his hip, tangling their tongues together. He reached up to push Mark off of him halfheartedly, and at the filmmaker's hurt expression he just smiled and suddenly their position had changed. Now it was Roger, all sexual energy and smoky green eyes staring Mark down as he climbed on top of him, popping the button on his pants- his morals have flown out the door now, and how was he supposed to hold onto them anyways with Mark moaning into his mouth and looking so damn corruptible and God, he could teach him SO many things with his hands and his teeth and his tongue and other parts of him...

"God, Mark, so fucking hot," he hissed, internally delighting at the whimper he received in return.

Neither of them, in their tipsy states, can see a good enough reason to stop. Mark can't help staring as Roger peels off his shirt, removing his pants in one swift movement and hooking his thumbs in his waistband, starting to pull off his boxers. He scrambles to follow the other man's lead, getting momentarily stuck in his sweater as he tugs it over his head and squirming out of his corduroys. He's not nearly as graceful as his counterpart, but that's only natural. It's a well known fact- Roger is suave, sexy; Mark was awkward. That was how it was, and that was how it would probably stay.

When Roger's lips crashed back into his, it was with an entirely new brand of hunger. It was quickly becoming apparent how this was going to happen. Roger wanted to dominate him, throw him down and take him with enough force that he wouldn't be able to walk properly the next day. And he was going to let him.

Mark shivered at the thought, so hard he could cum already, but he didn't want to just yet. Not when the look in Roger's eyes promised so much more. Abruptly, a thought floated through his head and he frowned as he blurted it out. "Wait- Roger- Cherry?"

Shrugging, Roger moved his mouth down to his neck and sucked, leaving behind a wet trail of bruises to his ear where he whispered in that rough stage voice, "We're over. Do you want me to fuck you or not?"

An embarrassingly desperate groan left him, and his face heated up when he heard it. But Roger had pulled away, smirking and awaiting his response, and all he could do was nod jerkily and reach for him again, wanting, needing more contact. Roughly, the other man grasped his wrists and dragged him, stumbling and surprised, towards the bedroom.

"I have some ideas.." He was muttering, glancing down at the scarf he'd snatched off of the ground in his free hand, and Mark nearly passed out. No sooner than he'd entered the room than he was tackled onto Roger's mattress, gasping and arching his back as Roger nipped and sucked viciously at his neck. He hardly noticed what Roger was doing to his hands until they were already bound together over his head. Above him, Roger was wearing the most provocative grin he'd ever seen. A whimper was torn from his throat as a hand brushed lightly over the tent in the front of his boxers.

Let the games begin.


	10. Please Take Me!

**A/N: (WARNING) Good news, guys, we're gotten to the Dirty Sex Chapter. Turn back now, all of you who aren't comfortable reading this sort of thing, and the rest of you who have patiently awaited this I applaud you and reward you with boysex. ;) This was, honestly, my favorite chapter to write so far. So I hope you all enjoyed it as much as me.**

Disclaimer: RENT I no own! Nor the idea of fellatio and or anal sex. *le sigh*

___**Chapter Ten: Please Take Me!**_

Mark was babbling, and he'd probably be more embarrassed about it if Roger's hand wasn't so close to right where he wanted it.

He couldn't exactly remember how they had gotten here. The room seemed to be spinning, just a little, and he could still taste alcohol in the corners of his mouth and on his lips. Why in the world had he ever let Collins get him drunk? Oh, right. Because he had hoped it would lead to something like... this.

It had all happened so fast. One hot, messy, out of control blur that he wouldn't trade for anything else in the world. He hadn't honestly expected Roger to react well to being climbed on top of and molested, let alone to reciprocate. But now his wrists are bound over his head by his own scarf and Roger is staring down at him like a piece of chocolate that he wants to suck on. Every second those green eyes bore into him, dark and lustful, he grows slightly harder, his cock throbbing between his legs and twitching at the feeling of Roger's teasing touches.

"P-please?" he tries, wondering if begging will get him what he wants. Roger is egotistical, and Mark has always been pretty sure that he would do anything for someone who stroked that giant ego of his.

He wants to giggle at how sexual that sounds in his head, and realizes belatedly how very drunk he is.

Somehow, he can't bring himself to care. Not when there are other, more pressing matters to focus on. Like the way Roger is looking at him as he curls his hand around his erection.

"Maybe... I don't know," Roger says lightly, smirking down at the rather desperate filmmaker squirming before him. Truth be told, Roger doesn't think he's going to last very long if Mark keeps this up. This is wrong, so wrong, but he can't stop thinking about it now. Not when Mark is stretched out before him, literally BEGGING for Roger to fuck him hard and fast and raw. His cock throbs at the thought, and he has to stifle a groan.

Roger has to be the one to take control of this situation. Mark is drunk and if he's not going to be responsible and just put him to bed, he ought to at least teach him a thing or two.

It's been a long time since Roger slept with a guy. The sensations- the stubble on Mark's cheeks rubbing on his jaw as he kisses him, the sharp angles and flat chest pressed to his rather than soft curves, the rough groans rumbling through Mark's body. This isn't at all like sleeping with Cherry, with any woman. He remembers it vaguely, a long way back, but now it's all rushing back and he remembers just what to do, just where to put his hands. He's nervous, but he's pretty sure he can do this.

Mark doesn't know that Roger was never the top in any of his male relationships. That's probably good. Roger doesn't want his roommate, his best friend- his lover?- to be nervous around him. It's not as though he doesn't know what he's doing- it's just that he's never done it before.

"Do you like that?" he asks softly, eyes sharp as they watch Mark's reactions. His hand strokes lightly up Mark's shaft through the thin material of his boxers, feeling it twitch and spasm beneath him. He feels completely in control, and it's a heady feeling. The other man tugs at his bonds uselessly, wrists twisting and delicious, frustrated groans spilling from his lips. It's a wonder that Roger has never tried getting Mark in bed before. Every one of his movements, his noises, they're perfect and mesmerizing and Roger wonders why he hasn't been jerking off to this boy since the moment he met him.

"Y-yes, yes..." Mark has his head tipped back, blue eyes fluttering closed, those white blonde eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. Fucking adorable. Roger shakes his head, trying to clear it and get back to the issue at hand.

"How about... this?" He twists his wrists, rubbing his thumb up on the underside of Mark's head in just the right way to draw a desperate groan and Mark arches his hips off the bed.

"Roger!" It's a squeak, and Roger's mouth curls into a triumphant smirk. He wants to make this man come undone before him, make him scream and groan and break down until he's nothing but a writhing body incapable of complete sentences, just Roger's name and various forms of 'please' and 'harder'.

"Good boy," he practically purrs, eyes half-hooded as he crawls down Mark's body, still lightly stroking him. The fabric beneath his fingers is growing sticky with precum, and that only makes his grin wider. Mark WANTS him, and nothing could possibly turn him on more. "What do you want?"

"Roger f- ffff-" Swallowing, Mark tries again, feeling overheated and frustrated. He wishes Roger would get on with it, but he can't help but love every minute that those calloused fingers touch him, every minute Roger watches him avidly. He hopes he's enjoying the fool he's is making out of himself. "Just- fuck me. Fucking- Nnngh!"

"What about-" Roger's sentence is cut off as he closes his mouth over the bulge in the front of Mark's boxers lightly, mouthing over it, tongue pressed- hot and damp- to the underside of Mark's shaft. The filmmaker swears loudly as he bucks off the bed again, towards that sinful mouth of Roger's. His mind spins with dirty, dirty images that- for once- he's not ashamed to be having.

"PLEASE!" he practically shouts, glasses sliding down his nose as he stares down at Roger's bleached hair. The guitarist curls his fingers in the waistband of Mark's boxers, starting to slowly, torturously drag them down his thighs and clean off his legs. The blonde fur on Mark's legs scratches at him, reminding him once again how very male the person he has in bed is.

Hmm. Not that he objected... Especially when Mark was already begging, already making him so very hard that he was tempted to grind down on the mattress.

Of course, he couldn't do that. Mark had to think he wasn't nearly as desperate as he actually was. If this was going to go down, he had to be in control because Mark very obviously wasn't.

And can he blame him? Mark probably hasn't been laid in months, years maybe- and Roger is completely dominating him, taking advantage in the most delicious way possible. It was dangerous, the way the thought of it, just the mere thought, made his gut twist and coil hotly.

Forbidden fruit indeed.

Deciding to give Mark what he wants, at least for the moment, Roger sucks the head of his cock gently into his mouth, tongue laving at the slit and tasting his precum, salty and bitter. It was perfect the way that Mark moaned his name. Fucking perfect. Roger shuddered, feeling the sounds go right through him from his ears to his cock in a matter of seconds, taking most of the blood not occupying his brain with them. Encouraged, wanting to rock this sheltered filmmaker's world- _his_ filmmaker, he reminds himself, _his_ Mark, and God it feels amazing to think that without trying to hide from himself about it- Roger grips his hips tightly, pressing them back onto the mattress hard enough to bruise and making sure that Mark is effectively held captive before angling his head and bobbing his head down, little by little.

Mark forced himself to keep his eyes open as he watched, awed and incredibly horny, as his cock disappears inch by inch into the songwriter's mouth. His tongue is dancing along the shaft and toying with the head and God, this is even better than how Maureen used to do it, so SO much better than his hand could ever be- his thoughts are cut off as Roger's throat is suddenly tight around his head, a swallowing motion causing it to convulse and suck him in in a way that makes him scream.

"ROGER GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" Okay, so he isn't at his most articulate, but he's drunk and Roger is hot and he's been featuring in his fantasies for far too long for him to object.

They're both men, after all. Men know sex. Men ARE sex. They know what they want, they know what feels good, and they know what to do to get it. Mark and Roger might be best friends and they might love each other to death but that doesn't mean they can't fuck for fun.

Except that Mark doesn't want it just for fun.

And neither does Roger.

But he's willing to disregard that for the moment if it means Roger will keep doing that thing with his tongue.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Roger never thought he would find something as addictive as heroin, but with Mark panting and begging and screaming his name- and they're e not even fucking yet- he thinks that he might have.

It's more difficult than it should be to pull away. Mark protests immediately, loudly, his adam's apple bobbing as he sits up and begins struggling against his bonds, babbling pleas and offers for later and even a few threats if Roger will just continue NOW, let him CUM. The green-eyed man has to force himself to do it, though- if not, his filmmaker is going to cum far too early in the game. And he can't have that.

No, the fun has only just begun.

He slides back up Mark's body, hands roaming lightly over his now sweat-damp skin, lips following behind. He wants to map out his blue-eyed, innocent Marky's body before he corrupts it, makes it his own. Like a king in his kingdom, he needs to know the land before making any serious decisions.

He tells himself that it's not because he wants to hear more of those delightful little gasps and groans, the muffled squeaks of pleasure, the tiny murmurings of his name.

He tells himself that, and anyone with eyes could see right through it.

One hand automatically goes to Mark's pale white ass, squeezing one globe and scraping his inner thigh lightly with his fingernails on the way back up to his navel. It occurs to him, as he looks up to where Mark has now given up on struggling and gone back to simply laying back and enjoying the ride, that Mark is vulnerable. He's stretched out completely naked and bound in front of his roommate, every scar and blemish on his body exposed- a freckle on the highest part of his thigh, a thick, jagged scar across his calf that makes Roger frown- out in the open.

It hits him then, full force, how much Mark Cohen trusts him.

"God, Mark," he hears himself whisper, sounding reverent. Glancing up again, he meet's Mark's azure eyes and finds himself almost lost in them before he tears his gaze away for the sake of both of their sanities. "God."

"S'not my name." Sarcasm, thy name is Mark. Roger growls low and long, seductive and nearly feral, catching the younger artist's attention again.

"Don't be a smartass," he advises him, that wandering hand happening to brush across the oversensitive tip of Mark's still saliva-covered cock. The desired effect is achieved. Mark sucks in a sharp breath, going completely still as if moving will scare Roger off. Like a skittish animal. Like a wild thing. It would be absurd, except for the fact that Roger IS acting like an animal right now, and not in a bad way.

"O-kay…" he eventually breathes, so light that the guitarist wouldn't have heard it at all if he hadn't been listening for it. For a first time, this is going so smoothly it's almost hard to believe.

Roger reaches over and knocks on the wooden nightstand three times without bothering to explain to Mark what's going on, reaching inside for the small tube he was searching for.

He doesn't want to jinx this. You don't jinx what you've been waiting for forever.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Mark has never felt half as appreciated, interesting, worshipped, as Roger is making him feel right this moment. It's like one long, extended fantasy of his- the kind you spend hours lying in bed thinking about whenever you have the time, like lazy Sundays or rainy days or even on sick days. This is one of those surreal fantasies, yes, the ones that he woke up sticky from and had to change the sheets and quietly sneak them out of his room and all the way down the stairs and down the street to the Laundromat before Roger notices because he'll never live it down.

His wrists are starting to chafe, but that's not bothering him as much as Roger's slow pace is. He was serious when he said he wanted to get fucked; he's not about to take it back, not now when he's so close he can almost taste it.

The touching, though. The licking and sucking and biting. Roger is a tease, a FANTASTIC, WONDERFUL tease. And he loves it as much as he hates it.

Every second is beautiful torture and he wonders if he'll even survive. Mark doubts that there's any feeling in the world that compares to this one, the feeling of Roger taking all of this extra time to pay special attention to him.

Until that hand is back wrapped around his length tightly, thumb teasing the head, and Roger's fingers have somehow become slick and cold as they press up against his puckered entrance. THAT feeling is entirely new, and he can't really be sure if he likes it. He's too shocked. Mark has, obviously, thought about gay sex before. A lot. He did his fair share of jerking off to porn as a kid, and as an adult he no longer always felt the need to resort to printed images or crappy-quality videos of two nameless people having scripted sex. But somehow, it had slipped his mind that someday it might be HIM doing this.

Him beneath another man, being thrust into slowly and deeply, clutching onto them for dear life as they plunged into him.

Well. That was certainly eye-opening.

"R-Roger-" he squeaked nervously, licking his lips in a nervous gesture. It was becoming a habit now to twist his wrists each time something surprising occurred- and Roger was just full of them. "Roger I don't know wh-what to do-"

"Shhh, Mark. Come on. Don't you trust me?" Roger raises his bleached head and looks right in Mark's eyes, piercing him with those darkened green eyes, the pupils dilated with lust. Lust for Mark…. The filmmaker shuddered and nodded without even having to think. "Then relax. It's me, Mark. Would I hurt you?"

Amazed at the transition from dark and sexy to soft and comforting that Roger has managed to pull with his voice in the space of ten seconds, Mark tries to obey. He really tries. He finds it difficult to convince his body that nothing is wrong and nothing is out of place, but eventually he manages to allow his muscles to unfurl and he sags against the bed, doing all in his power not to clench his muscles as Roger presses one finger up inside of him.

He focuses on the ceiling, not too fond of the semi-painful and extremely awkward feeling of being penetrated, and begins to count the cracks. They are sloppily fixed with some of that putty stuff that Collins had gotten for free off of one of his students in exchange for pot, the off-white of the ceiling more obvious against the blinding white of the putty slathered on thickly where the rain used to drip through. In April, when the showers were heaviest, every pot and pan in their possession would be sitting somewhere in the loft catching raindrops as the trickled through the cracks in the roof. He and Roger would sometimes, when they were really bored and uninspired, sit on either side of one and count the number of drips from noon until four the next morning, pausing only for bathroom breaks and to go get food to bring back to the dusty floor beside the water-filled pot. Mark smiles at the memory, his glasses sliding further down his nose. He would fix them, but he doesn't have the use of his hands.

By now, Roger's middle finger is pushed up all the way inside of him. He has a brief hysterical moment in which he thinks about how Roger has, technically, already 'fucked' him, before he calms down enough to nod at Roger's expectant gaze. This isn't so bad, really- the stretching is awkward and painful at first, burning really, but Mark knows that there are pleasure sensors in people's assholes- more so in the male's than the female's- and that he's going to find his if it's the last thing he does.

"Can I move it around?" Roger asks bluntly, curling the tip of the finger in question just slightly. It makes the strawberry-blonde wince, but at the same time he wonders what that other more pleasant twinge was. It had been small and maybe not obvious, but it had been there.

"Fuck- Roger, just, do what you have to do already!" he managed to hiss out in frustration, knowing as soon as the words leave his mouth that his roommate is going to take advantage of this someday in the future and possibly today. Tonight. Oh, God, what if it happened? What if they really…?

Mark can't say that he'd object- even sober he had admitted to that. But he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe Roger didn't want him as much as he wanted HIM, wanted those guitar callouses all over him and that gelled, bleached hair tickling his cheek and his neck as he kissed it.

"Alright." Roger isn't talkative, and considering what Mark knows about Roger's bedroom skills (a painful amount, seeing as he's been living with him in this loft for years and the walls are paper fucking thin) this is way too unusual. Wondering what exactly could have changed, Mark makes the mistake of looking down again and watching as Roger intently stares at his own finger being slowly drawn out of Mark's ass before being pushed back in forcefully, making him choke on a grunt of pain.

"Ow-" he starts to complain, swallowing down the temptation to back down. He knows that if he doesn't go through with this now- and God does he want it, has wanted it- he might never get another chance. Taking a moment to adjust again, the burn-stretch-pain beginning to subside, he slowly nods and mumbles his confirmation. "More."

If this is the first step to being fucked, Mark wonders why anyone ever has sex. It's awkward and uncomfortable; the only reason he hasn't yet freaked out over the entire thing is because this is Roger he's watching finger fuck him, adding a second before his very eyes and slamming them up into him, making him gasp and groan. It doesn't feel good, not at all, and he's beginning to wonder if maybe this gay thing is a fluke after all when Roger begins the angling.

His hand explores the different angles at which it can thrust downwards, some making the filmmaker wince and squirm and others just feeling odd and making off-putting squelching noises that he'd rather forget. Subconsciously, he spreads his legs wider for Roger, allowing him better access and bucking his hips up. Despite the fact that he's being invaded by a strange appendage, Mark can't help but be excited. His fantasy is coming true. Roger cares about him. Roger WANTS him.

Roger has him.

It's an incredible experience, the first time Roger hits his prostate. It's just two fingers and one special angle, but when they jab down and pleasure jolts through him like a gunshot, exploding through his veins like hot shards of glass. This isn't pain anymore, this is pure, unadulterated ecstasy. A surprised groan is torn from him, almost a sob, and his heart nearly stops when he sees the triumphant smirk curling at the corners of Roger's lips.

"Oh holy FUCK Roger what-! WHAT IS THAT! There! Again!"

Mark finds himself babbling, his cheeks flushed and full of all of the blood that can't fit into his already throbbing cock. He wishes Roger would pay more attention to his neglected erection- as if on cue, Roger, leans down and licks over the head again firmly, drawing another moan from the shell-shocked Mark whose virginity, it seemed, was in grave peril. The things he's saying in his head have never so readily sprung out of his mouth, as if they had a life of their own, but Roger has always had this effect on him.

Fingers twisting and thrusting up inside of him again at the same angle, Roger simply leers up at him smugly, feeling as though he is on top of the world. Just like he's about to be on top of Mark.

God, he couldn't wait.

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It's just as difficult to tear himself away the second time Mark nears his orgasm, perhaps more so. Roger bites his lip apologetically, reaching back into his nightstand and rummaging around hastily. Mark is just begging to be fucked now, begging him with not only his voice but his eyes, the frantic motion of his hips. Roger wants to give him what he wants, and not only because he wants it too.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered as he tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth carelessly, ripping it away and immediately rolling it onto his engorged shaft. He was so hard he could, debatably, cut through sheet metal with his dick- at least that's what it felt like. Roger ran a hand through his messy bleached hair, chewing his lip as he stared down at his roommate. Mark stared back at him, wide-eyed and trusting, innocent and so dirty at the same time.

Roger Davis was about to put another notch on his bedpost, have his wicked way- but this time, he was certain, it was really going to mean something.

He's sloppy, movements jerky and completely rushed as he applies the lubricant to his sheathed member, but that's not a big deal. He's got the condom and that's the important part- Mark was not allowed to get sick, to die, because of some surreal night they spent together, falling into bed in a matter of twenty minutes of their first kiss. And speaking of kiss, he has to crawl back up to hover over Mark and kiss him on the lips, soft and gentle and reassuring, just to be sure before they begin.

"You're going to be okay," he promises. "It'll feel good. Just, not at first. But I PROMISE, I'll make it good."

Mark simply whimpers in response, overcome with emotion and lust and mind foggy from the beer. He's never looked so fucking good. Roger takes moment to pull back and observe him.

He's a sight to see. Long and flawlessly pale, his hair's so fine and blonde you could hardly see them on his skin, Mark was almost like an angel. He wasn't perfect or smooth like a woman, no curves, all angles and bones and Roger was pretty sure he could count all his ribs- but then there was the taut muscles in his arms and legs, the trail of hair leading from his navel to his crotch, his flushed cock bobbing with each shallow, labored breath he took as Roger slid his fingers out of him and replaced them with the head of his cock nudging Mark's entrance tentatively.

He braced himself with one arm on either side of his head, the typical opening move, and watched Mark's face carefully as he lowered himself nearly on top of the filmmaker. Their bare chests touched, nipples brushing over each other, and both men felt their heart rates accelerate as a shudder passed through them. It was happening fast, so fucking fast, everything at once and Roger wasn't sure if that was exactly a good thing. Nevertheless, he angled his hips and slowly, gently pushed forward.

The head of his cock passed the first tight ring of muscle, sucked into that snug heat, and Roger had to suppress a heady groan. His eyes fluttered shut of their own accord as he pressed himself further inside, being engulfed by Mark's virgin hole as the young filmmaker bit on his lip til it bled and stifled his own needy, agonized moans. He wanted to say so many things. That he loved him, that he wanted this so much, that it hurt so much more than he'd been prepared for but it was worth it, worth the look on Roger's face-

He lost the battle quickly, a whimper escaping his throat, and he tilted his head back as his body fought with itself. Tense, and it hurt more- don't tense and be invaded further. But God, he wanted it more than he cared that he was being ripped in half, so he spread his legs and choked on a gasp and didn't make another sound of protest.

Perhaps sensing this, Roger paused and opened his eyes again, panting, thighs trembling as he stopped halfway in. "You okay, Marky?" he whispered hoarsely. Stopping was obviously taking its toll on him, so Mark nodded tersely, ignoring the tears forming in the corners of his eyes and clinging to his whitish eyelashes, ignoring everything but Roger and the way that his chest rose and fell with each pant.

"Just- go" he spits, gritting his teeth and bracing himself, and without hesitation Roger slams his hips up to meet his, fully sheathed and gasping out a groan of ecstasy- it sounded almost exactly like his stage voice and it made Mark's head spin, or maybe that was the dizzying agony of Roger rubbing up deep inside him, oh fuck it was too much-

He couldn't help the pathetic whimper that once again managed to leave his mouth. Freezing, he peeked guiltily at Roger hoping that he hadn't noticed his slip. He wasn't so lucky. The guitarist's eyes burned him with their intensity, and a hand was removed from his hips to stroke at his cheek lightly, moving over his skin lightly and soothingly.

"Shh, Marky it's okay… It stops hurting soon…" Those eyes close as Roger leans in and kisses him, gradually deepening it, thrusting his tongue gently into Mark's mouth the same way that he's thrusting his cock into his ass. And yes- Mark can feel it, feel himself relaxing, getting used to the girth of it inside him. He made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, arching up into Roger slightly. The rocker grins against his lips and takes this as encouragement, thrusting slightly harder upwards into the same wonderful angle.

And from there, things happen very fast.

Mark groans gutturally as Roger's cock rubs up against his prostate, hips bucking wildly off the bed and wrists twisting violently. His mouth is open wide as he pants, head thrown back in ecstasy, a myriad of groans and pants and animalistic noises escaping him in a tidal wave, entire body thrumming with pleasure. His heart seems to be beating in time with his racing thoughts, more like a hummingbirds' than a humans' because he's practically vibrating with the sudden punch in the gut that was this new form of pleasure.

"ROG-" he chokes, unable to even finish the name before trailing off into a long groan. His eyes have fallen shut, sparks of bright light flashing behind his lids. It's unbearable, it's torture, he has to CUM or he might explode, implode, something is going to happen embarrassingly early but he DOESN'T CARE.

The pace is erratic, vigorous, Roger panting and sweat dripping from his brow as he thrusts into him again and again. The desperation in Roger's face, twisted up and intense, matches the desperation Mark is feeling and he moans out his appreciation.

Every thrust stings and brings a new wave of pleasure to soothe it.

Every spark of pleasure pushed him closer to the edge.

His heartbeat is in his ears, seeming to fill the room along with the slap of skin on skin and the pleading, breathless groans from both parties.

Over him, Roger is closing his eyes, hips jerking in a new, even faster pace that seems to Mark like it precedes the finale. He's been ready for almost a minute now, a long torturous minute that has him straddling that thin line between pleasure and pain and release and everything, and now he's rambling even in his head, but he can't stop, don't stop, don't stop-

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't STOP-" Somehow Mark's thoughts have started vocalizing themselves in a voice he can hardly believe is his. It's raw and pleading, high and low depending on when you listened, and his wrists are very likely going to be sore for weeks to come. Roger sinks his teeth into Mark's neck, sucking viciously and he cries out, tumbling over that hypothetical cliff.

Mark cums with Roger's name on his lips and Roger with Mark's in almost the same moment, Mark clenching his muscles and shooting his sticky white seed onto Roger's stomach and Roger deep inside him and for one moment, the entire world comes into focus and everything is perfect.

When Roger pulls out and collapses on the bed beside him, both of them out of breath, he wraps his strong arms around Mark and they huddle together, a blanket thrown carelessly over them as they fall asleep together.

It was just too bad that neither of them saw the tear in the condom as Roger disposed of it, throwing it to the floor, intending to walk all the way to the trash.

But for then. Just for then. Mark could fall asleep to the sound of Roger's heavy breathing with a grin on his face, hope strong in the front of his mind.


	11. About Last Night

**A/N: Wow, it's been a month and a half already? Guys, I'm sorry! Life continues to get in the way of my fanfiction. I haven't had time to write a proper chapter in so long... I'm grounded for life, you see. But disregarding that, my muse has been hard at work and I really hope you enjoy the chapter that's been churning around in my head for the longest time now. :D Here goes! I know it's short but I think it's supposed to be.**

Disclaimer: RENT is most definitely not mine, seeing as I am musically ungifted and unable to rhyme. Nope. It definitely belongs to J-Lar.

_**About Last Night..**_

"Please don't stop..."

Roger blinks groggily, head pounding, and makes a very short-lived attempt to sit up. Ugh. His mouth is dry and tastes like stale beer and he's afraid to open it for fear of the awful morning breath he probably has. Beside him, a smaller shape is cuddled to his side under the blankets and his first thought is of Mimi, always so tiny and delicate and looking out of place in his bed. Frowning, he reaches to shake her shoulder and the shape moves and he can see her- _his_- face.

There is a frozen moment, when he first absorbs the fact that Mark is sleeping in his bed. With him. He blinks rapidly, the throbbing between his eyes intensifying, and tries to rationalize it. This wouldn't have been the first time that he and Mark got drunk together and ended up sleeping in the same bed. It wouldn't have been the first time they'd gotten fed up with the cold and done the same, either, but it's not honestly that cold in the loft for once because it's only October and he's pretty sure he's naked- Wait.

Green eyes quickly scanneed the room, horror dawning in them slowly but surely as they flickered over the slowly mounting pile of evidence.

Clothes strewn all about, not all of them his.

Foil wrapper lying innocently by the trash bin.

Used condom tossed carelessly on the floor by his lazy, content post-sex self-

"Mmm... Roger."

His gaze snapped back to Mark, feeling queasy and pale now as the monumental implications bombarded his mind. _- _The other man was flushed, glasses slipping down to the very tip of his nose, mumbling in his sleep as he was apt to do-_- _and Roger felt his stomach heave as he heard his name on those lips, the ones he'd been admiring so long- __-

Fuck.

He'd slept with Mark.

Unable to hold it back any longer, Roger ripped the covers off of him and nearly fell right out of the bed, staggering out of the bedroom and down the short stretch of hall. He barely made it into the bathroom before he was dropping to his knees and vomiting, copiously, into the porcelain toilet bowl. It was debatable, he thought as the acid-y gunk poured from his lips, whether this was the result of his own self-loathing or the alcohol. Groaning and spitting out questionable chunks from his mouth, panting and dry heaving several times, he finally laid his forehead on the toilet seat and wrapped his arms around his middle, mind racing.

What had he done? How had he allowed this to happen? This wasn't some groupie or a girl downstairs with a candle, this was _Mark Cohen._ His best friend. His- his reason for carrying on. Without Mark, Roger doubted that he'd even be here. Would he have found the strength to quit H without Mark to pin him down while he sobbed and screamed hateful words and pleaded for one more hit all in the same breath? Would he have survived April's death, his own diagnosis, without Mark to hold him while he shook and stared blankly at the wall for hours and days at a time, contemplating the different ways he could follow her and just end it all? No. He had to face it. Mark meant too much to him to fuck up. And apparently, one too many drinks had caused him to do just that. Literally.

"Roger?" He weakly lifted his head from the seat to swivel towards the figure in the doorway. Mark was way too fucking adorable. It couldn't even be legal. His hair was mussed, sticking up on the side, eyes bleary and pilowmarks covered one side of his face as he stared down at the rocker in confusion. "You'kay?" A yawn slurred the word, but he didn't bother to correct himself.

There were no words. No way to say "I'm sorry" without hating himself even more. Roger only stared back at him, silent and terrified and guts twisted up in guilty knots. The longer he stared the more Mark fidgeted, nervous, and he eventually broke the gaze for the sake of his roommate's- _bedmate's-_ comfort.

"Fine." He hadn't planned his response, and he frowned as it slipped out- his body seemed to be on autopilot as it jerked to it's feet and, without bothering to flush the vomit in the toilet, bumped past Mark as it left the room.

Roger was numb. He was used to a torrent of emotions, constant stimulation, inspiration for his music and crazy ups and downs. It defined him, the emotional musician, and yet now the hellish mantra was the only thing he could hear, see, roaring in his ears like rushing water or a blazing wildfire, uncontrollable, unstoppable-

_-_

He pulled his clothes on mechanically, oblivious to Mark's pale, worried face as he got dressed, unaware of the concerned words spilling past his lips, asking him over and over, "Where are you going? What are you doing? Roger- Roger please don't-"

But he's already out the door.

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Shakily, Mark stares at the metal door Roger had slammed behind him nearly an entire minute before.

He could still hear him clanging down the metal steps but he knew it was no use going after him. He knew Roger better than anyone, his moods and his thought processes and his muse. This was panicked!Roger. He'd remembered what they'd done and he regretted it.

Licking his lips, Mark miserably sank to the ground, holding his pounding head in his hand. A whimper, small and pathetic, escaped him.

He was alone. Roger was off somewhere forgetting about him- whether through booze or women or (hopefully not) smack, it didn't matter.

Well. Fuck.

That could have gone better.

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Said Roger Davis was pacing down the street in a murky haze of confusion and horror. It was almost enough to make him forget about the hangover that was sure to return with a vengeance as soon as he calmed down.

He couldn't grasp the concept. All around him, the sounds of the city twisted and morphed and made it scary, made the world sharp and dangerous. Everything was dangerous now. Any false move. He'd already fucked it all up, though, so there wasn't any point in being careful. Besides, Roger might be skinny but he had some muscle on him and he knew his way around the streets here. If anyone tried to give him trouble, he was confident that he would be the one coming out of the scrap with bloody knuckles and a victorious sneer.

But none of that was on Roger's mind. Only Mark, Mark with his big blue eyes and crooked smile and the innocence about him that Roger liked to think that he still had, although in truth most of it had disappeared years ago. Mark, Mark, Mark- the only person he loved unconditionally in the world and he'd killed him.

His heart lurched painfully in his chest at the thought. Killed Mark? _Mark?_ What the fuck was wrong with him! Didn't he have any sense, or had the bleach finally killed off the last of his brain cells?

Sick. He felt absolutely sick and there was no other word for it. Sick to his stomach. Was this what murderers felt like? Or did they just not give a shit? But Roger could believe that not all homicides were just crimes, that some might be like his- untouchable by law, the unintentional transfer of a deadly disease, but nevertheless he knew it was his fault. HE knew, and therefore…

It was true. He'd killed Mark Cohen and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Roger shuddered, deeply ashamed, and increased his pace. He rounded a corner and grunted in apology as he nearly knocked over a homeless man that he hadn't seen in his way, too self-absorbed at the moment to care.

Someone who killed their best friend… They didn't deserve to live. HE didn't deserve to live. Roger had always known that his life was useless, useless the moment that that test had come back positive. But he had managed to hang on. For Mark.

So that he could kill Mark.

Fuck.

Running a shaky hand through his messy hair, he tried desperately to keep his roaring flood of emotion in check. It felt as though a million pairs of narrowed eyes were watching him, suspicious and judging, and although in reality he was almost alone on this dingy street in the broad daylight everything was bleak and dark in his mind.

If he was a moral human being, he would off himself now and get it over with. April had had the right idea, he realized- kill the ones you love and then, in return, kill yourself. It had taken this to let him see it but perhaps there was a lesson to be learned after all. He swallowed hard, daring for the first time to think about the possibility…

But no. Wait. What about Mark? What was he going to do, give him AIDS and then leave- just like that? Walk out again. Santa Fe in a nutshell. Roger had hated every second he'd spent in Santa Fe anyways. Hated himself for leaving, for leaving Mimi AND Mark, who was probably at home right now realizing all of the implications that Roger had already realized.

He'd have to get him tested…

Finally running out of nervous energy, Roger's steps faltered. He looked around quickly and, the weight of the world crashing down on him, slumped against the nearest brick wall with his head in his hands.

"Fuck…"

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It took Roger six hours and seventeen minutes to return to the loft.

That was exactly it. Mark had made sure. Once he had pulled himself together- _Get a grip, Cohen, get your head outta your ass and DO something-_ he had had nothing to do but stare at the wall. And then at the clock.

He didn't creep back in like a meek and wounded dog, guilty and looking around as though he expected to get slapped across the face. He didn't drop to his knees and cry and beg for Mark's forgiveness for the act that the filmmaker didn't even blame him for. He simply strode inside, the door crashing open almost violently, and right past the cross-legged figure nursing his camera on the floor. Past him and down the hall, hanging a right into his room.

Mark stared after him in a mixture of dread and incredulity. Roger wasn't one to have a firm grip on his emotions- he'd expected more. And yet the rocker was holed up in his room, quiet as a mouse. Nothing shattered or crashed. No strains of guitar reached his ears. No terribly guilty apologies…

The ache that had set into his chest cavity earlier in the day panged again, reminding him that he cared. Mark closed his eyes and cursed himself.

So this was it. Roger didn't even want to talk about it.

As usual.

Biting back the pathetic, hurt noise he wanted to make, Mark wobbled to his feet and padded softly down the hall to his own room. He closed the door quietly behind him and allowed a tear to trail down his cheek.

And so began the newest chapter in his miserable life.


	12. Bridges He Burned

**A/N: I'm still grounded and it's sucking at the same velocity as before, so no changes there. I got fantastic responses to the last chapter and it totally motivated me to get a move on with this one, so thanks guys! Including this one we only have four more to go. Getting pumped! Anyways, here's some more angst and Mark's epiphany. R&R my lovely followers!**

Disclaimer: My idol, Jonathan Larson, wrote this beautiful musical and I'm just bending it to my will.

**Chapter Twelve: Bridges He Burned**

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There are times when Mark understands Roger's aversion to facing the truth. This was one of those times.

It was out of necessity rather than preference that he had gone to the free clinic two blocks away alone. The reason that he was going wasn't exactly something he wanted to broadcast. Roger would be pissed- or worse, apathetic- if he told any of their friends about their drunken encounter on Halloween, and he didn't know anyone else to tell. Briefly, he'd considered Paul at Life Support- but Mark hated to worry people. And anyways, he was "The Negative One"- he couldn't take that away from them.

And so, Mark went to get tested without a hand to hold.

The test itself wasn't something to worry about. All he had to do was sit still while the nurse swabbed the inside of his mouth, then look away as she took a small sample of his blood. She gave him a sheet to fill out and left him alone in the sterile, silent room with nothing but the scratching of his pencil to keep him company. Mark shivered and wished that he had brought his camera. But that seemed morbid, to record the sick and dying people scattered around the waiting room. He squinted down at the paper in front of him, chewing his lip.

_Full Name: _Mark Anthony Cohen

_Date of Birth:_ July 7, 1965

_Preexisting medical conditions?_ None

_Have you come into direct contact with the bodily fluids of an HIV+ person?_

Snorting, he nodded to himself and filled in the "yes" bubble in slow, measured circles of lead. His eyes darted down to the next question and froze.

_Have you participated in unsafe sexual activities with an HIV+ person?_

For a moment, he contemplated how he would answer this. Did it matter, really, that they'd remembered the condom? Not if it broke. He scribbled in the "yes" bubble less than neatly, his hands shaking so badly that he was almost unable to fill in the rest of his information.

It wasn't long before the nurse came back in, smiling and patting the band-aid over his puncture as she took the documents from him. "That will be all, Mr. Cohen," she said sweetly, leading him out. Mark swallowed down the disgust he felt for himself at the pitied glances he received the moment he got here. Sure, he was probably pale and vaguely queasy-looking, but he was fine. Perfectly fine. Mark Cohen didn't need anyone to hold his hand while he got his blood taken.

But he might need something to hang on to when they called with the results.

He was patient. He really was. Mark was proud of his patience, actually, in a world where no one seemed to have any anymore. But this? He was realistically certain that he would drive himself insane with all of the waiting.

Was he positive? Negative? Until the results were in- two months from now- he would just have to assume the former to be on the safe side. No more carelessly leaving paper cuts or scrapes unbandaged. No more going without a coat, no sleeping without a blanket. But how would he break the news to Roger? God…

It was all that the filmmaker could think about the entire way back to the loft. He dawdled- he didn't want to face the brooding songwriter upstairs, didn't want to see his face when he said the words. Roger's reactions were famous for their inconsistency- however, in this case, Mark was fairly sure he knew exactly what would be.

He was amazed, really, that Roger had stuck around this long. Two whole weeks had passed and not a word had been spoken between them. Mark wondered if this was some bizarre form of the silent treatment- if it was, he wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve it.

Except maybe seducing his best friend when they both were less than sober.

Mark sighed and fished around in his pocket for his key, feeling the gloom descend on him again. As depressing as the dusty silence in the loft had become, it would be worse with this new information hovering, stagnant, in the air over their heads. He looked up, shading his eyes against the bright, cold November sunlight, to stare at what he thought might be Roger's bedroom window.

_What am I going to tell him?_

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Up in his room, a fretful guitarist stared in dismay at the new hole in the wall just over his headboard.

His knuckles were throbbing, probably bleeding but he wasn't in the mood to check. He could bleed out for all he cared. Roger hadn't gotten a decent amount of sleep in fourteen days- every night was spent pacing the streets or brooding on barstools. He returned at odd hours smelling like stale beer and sweat but that was only the residual smell of the clubs that he spent all of his time in. God knows he wasn't about to go fucking anyone else after what he'd done to Mark. He probably couldn't even get it up anymore.

His dick had essentially killed his best friend.

Fuck. He hadn't put a hole in the wall in years, not since withdrawal and April. Those were the days that he put Mark in danger every day, but in a much less pleasant fashion. Where the hell had his carefully cultivated control gotten to?

He needed to get a hold of himself. He needed to-

Metal doors were not subtle. Mark's entrance was audible, the front door clanging shut loudly enough to wake Mimi from her afternoon nap. Roger felt all of the blood drain from his cheeks in record time, making him white and nauseous all over again.

A glance downwards told him all he needed to know about the state of his knuckles. Gritting his teeth, he slipped out of his bedroom and attempted to dart, unseen, to the bathroom. Thus far he'd managed to avoid talking to Mark at all by sheer force of will and a drastically unstable change of schedule, staying out or in his room for hours at a time and sneaking around in the wee hours of the morning when he knew his roommate would be asleep. It was better this way, he told himself- better if he kept his distance. Eventually whatever infatuation that Mark had for him and that he had for Mark would disappear into thin air and he would stay negative and everything would be hunky dory.

Then it would hurt less. At least in theory.

So far, all of Roger's theories have been pretty shitty.

Mark was quick today, though. An albino pale arm shot out and caught him before he could slam the bathroom door safely shut behind him, spinning him around. He struggled for a moment before recognizing the determined expression on Mark's face- damn it all. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Why are you avoiding me?" Even Mark looked surprised as he blurted the words, eyes widening slightly. Roger had a sneaking suspicion that it had taken all of the scrawny man's courage to say anything at all, force those words out of his mouth. Confrontation wasn't Mark's thing- but Roger? He was great at it. He answered easily.

"I'm not." A blatant lie- smooth, Davis. He inched closer to the bathroom door, heart simultaneously trying to sink and hammer right out of his chest.

"Don't bullshit me. Come on, Roger, we have to talk eventually-"

"No, we don't." Giving up the pretense, the guitarist jerked his arm and stalked away, ignoring the panicked ringing that had begun in his ears the moment Mark touched his shoulder. He wasn't allowed to _touch_ him. God! There had to be _rules_, had to be some kind of order, or Roger was going to lose it right there.

If he ran away from Mark again, left him alone in this huge city, he would never be able to forgive himself.

"I got tested."

The words were like a bullet, stopping him dead. Deliriously, he realized that his heart had come to a halt for the moment and there was a brief second where it almost felt like he was drifting, floating, soul ripped right from his body-

What he wouldn't give to just be watching this. But no- he was living the nightmare.

"… Yeah? Good," he murmured eventually, physically forcing himself to smile. The result was probably more of a grimace, but it was the best that he could do under the circumstances. He made another stiff attempt to walk, but Mark wasn't having that- he tugged the songwriter back towards him by the sleeve.

"Don't. Please talk to me," he mumbled, not quite looking at him. His expression reminded Roger of that of a kicked puppy or a lost child, confused and wounded, as though his entire life had been thrown into chaos without notice. And it had, if he thought about it. Mark hadn't done anything wrong- Roger had, or at least that's what he'd convinced himself, but Mark was still the one being punished for it.

Maybe this was his punishment, he thought to himself. His punishment for the sin of murder was to watch his victim be dragged through hell, watch and be helpless to stop it.

"I don't think that's a great idea, Mark." Wincing at his own hard tone, Roger made a significant attempt to soften it. "I don't want to fuck this up anymore than I already have."

"You didn't." Blue eyes wide and bloodshot- Mark hadn't gotten a whole lot more sleep than he had, but he wouldn't know that- the filmmaker stared at him incredulously. "Roger, you didn't fuck anything up- for God's sake, not everything always has to be your fault-"

"The FUCK it isn't my fault!" Roger lost his temper at last, snapping his gaze up to Mark and snarling, face flushing with angry color. "If you- if- I can't even…" Losing momentum, his words deteriorated into harsh spluttering. Mark was alarmed by the shade of puce that his face had taken on. If he'd been listening, he would have heard the fear in his voice- but Mark was focused on only one thing, and that was proving that he was okay.

"If what? If I'm positive? It's HIV, Roger, not the plague- plenty of people have it. Plenty of my _friends_ have it and they're still here and I don't love them any less." He frowned, furrowing his eyebrows in reproach. He'd expected Roger to be upset, but enough was enough. They both had to move along now. Roger just didn't want to understand, and as the narrator he felt that it was his job to make him. "I have years left either way… I'll get a job and it'll be fine."

"DON'T." Immediately regretting his outburst, Roger shuffled his feet and backed away from him, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'll pay for it." It was more difficult than ever to swallow back the bile that rose in his throat at the thought of Mark, like Angel before him, lying gaunt and sickly on the crisp white hospital linens with monitors beeping unsteadily all around him and dark sores appearing daily across his pale features, marring them irreversibly. Mark stuck full of IV needles, Mark at the next Life Support meeting standing up and announcing the results, the horrified and knowing looks all around him, the sadness hanging over the group at the news, Mark coughing wetly into the crook of his elbows, telling Roger to get away, he's sick, collapsing, sirens blaring and Roger screaming, "NO NOT MARK, YOU CAN'T TAKE MARK-"

"Roger? Roger are you okay? Rog?"

Blinking rapidly, heart pounding brutally against his ribcage, Roger exhaled a shaky breath and glanced up briefly to meet Mark's concerned gaze. The lack of sleep was catching up to him these past few days- that was the fourth or fifth hallucination he'd had, some sick daytime nightmare, all of them laden with guilt. Belatedly, in the midst of shaking it off, he realized that his roommate had taken his limp arm and was inspecting his bruised and bloodied knuckles. Another surge of hysteria gripped him in a tidal wave of raw emotion- he tore himself away, slamming back into the wall behind him and, wide eyed, staring warily at Mark who stood startled and reaching towards him only a foot away.

"Fuck. OFF." It almost frightened him to hear that low growl from his own throat, but he wasn't about to take it back. Mark had no concept of boundaries, no concept of self-preservation- and in order for Roger to make himself stay, he needed both.

"Alright! Calm down." Nervously, Mark backed into the opposite wall. He was all too aware both of his smaller stature and of Roger's terrifying strength, especially in these manic moments. The two men stood staring at each other uneasily from opposite sides of the hall, faces shaded in the dim light- Roger was the first to look away.

With his uninjured hand he shakily reached up to tug at his hair, closing his eyes wearily. It was impossible to watch Mark's face any longer. "No touching. N-no sex- or kissing- nothing. Don't touch me. I won't touch you. And- you'll be safe."

He tried to put emphasis on the last word, hoping that Mark would realize how idiotic he was being, but the filmmaker narrowed his eyes and he knew that it was hopeless.

"Safe? I don't care about SAFE!" Perhaps, judging by the twisted look on Roger's face, he could have put it more tactfully. But Mark was beyond tact at the moment. He could scarcely believe that Roger would do this to him, push him away when he needed him most. "You're my _best friend_," he hissed, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Without his camera to hide behind, to protect him, he felt too vulnerable and far more likely to make some stupid mistake.

"Best friends don't fuck each other! Best friends don't give each other death sentences!" Roger's eyes flashed- and Mark knew that he'd really pissed him off this time, cringing back into the wall. "I'm not your _friend_, Mark. Hate me. _You're supposed to hate me!"_

The filmmaker shook his head mechanically, unable to process the meaning behind Roger's heated words. It was too much. The impending death of their relationship was too much, too much right now when he was already on the verge of an anxiety attack- he didn't want to deal with this, too. It was no longer a question of whether Roger "liked him back" but more one of whether or not he was going to stick around long enough for there to even be a chance.

"I- I can't, I don't- Roger, I don't. I don't h-hate you, I couldn't-" The words stuck half-formed in his throat, thick with tears that he was stubbornly refusing to let fall. Panic was setting in, making his whole body tremble. "Roger please-"

"No! That's it! You obviously can't make the right decisions for yourself, Mark, so I'll have to make them for you."

Roger spun on his heel, and the conversation was effectively brought to an end. Mark shuddered, wanting nothing more than to curl up and die, but the sound of Roger's door slamming in his face made him spring into action. He pounded on it furiously with his fist, yelling whatever came into his head. He had only one objective- to make him stay.

"Roger! ROGER OPEN UP! ROGER! STOP!"

Ten minutes of screaming later his throat was raw- he would have continued, voice be damned, but the door swung violently open to reveal Roger's clenched jaw and stoic features. He pushed past Mark, a duffel bag in hand and his guitar as well.

"See you around, Cohen."

And try as he might, Mark couldn't keep Roger rooted to the spot. He watched in terrible dread as Roger walked out of his life and shut the door quietly behind him.

He would have preferred a slam. Slammed doors were angry. Temporary. But this…

Permanent.

Roger was gone and he was alone.

And then there was black.


	13. Positive

**A/N: I'm on a roll, if you hadn't noticed, so here's another chapter… three left guys! THREE! I'm way more excited than you even know. :D The end of the angst is soon, don't worry… But anyways. Go on, my lovely readers, and delve into the newest chapter!**

Disclaimer: It's not cool to claim other people's work, so I won't. RENT belongs to J-Lar.

**Chapter Thirteen: Positive**

All of the blood flowing to Roger's head wasn't helping him think at all. It was, in fact, making him dizzy and even a little nauseous… Well. There's another one of his shitty theories out the window.

The former gloryhound could be found on his back with half of his body dangling over the edge of his less-than-comfortable hotel standard mattress, eyes shut tightly in an attempt to shut the world out and arms hanging limply at his sides. His room was a disaster area, the contents of his bag strewn carelessly and bedding lying in heaps on the floor. Small, untidy piles of unwashed laundry joined them. The guitar in the corner, propped against the wall, observed the pathetic scene forlornly from beneath a fine layer of dust.

It was unfortunate that Roger had only had enough money to make it to Boston, because it hadn't given him quite enough distance from Mark to stay entirely sane. If he had thought that the guilt was killing him in New York, he was unpleasantly surprised by what Boston had in store for him.

Months. He'd been in this strange, foreign city for months, two of them, and time hadn't flown as he'd hoped it would. It trickled sluggishly in tiny increments, almost like molasses. Roger was fraying at the edges, dark circles surrounding his eyes that had nothing to do with his eyeliner, and sleep offered him no refuge. Any dreams he had quickly became nightmares, or worse- dreams of Mark, of the city and all of the friends he left behind. He was miserable. And the worst part was that he had no choice but to stay that way.

Misery was never the desired effect- it was just a symptom without a cure. He'd realized by the time he boarded the first bus out of New York that his real addiction was alive and well. Fuck heroin- that was nothing compared to this. _Nothing._ Mark withdrawal was real hell, complete with fiery tongues of guilt lapping at his skin, leaving invisible burns and searing his soul. Of all of the things he'd endured coming down off of smack, Mark's absence trumped them all.

The dizziness grew stronger, and with a grunt Roger swung himself back upright and waited for it to pass. God, he was tired… Even when he did manage to sleep, nothing changed. Mark wasn't there when he woke up and he didn't hate himself any less. The days blended together in one huge mass of gray and black, the only colors that Roger seemed to see anymore except for the scarlet pain that shot through him at the thought that he might never see his best friend ever again.

The job he'd gotten at the convenience store on the corner barely provided enough for his hotel room and the occasional cigarette, but he wasn't really hungry. The empty feeling in his chest had nothing to do with his eating habits, and there was nothing that he could do to make it go away.

Roger Davis was depressed, plain and simple. Depressed and in love- he knew the feeling well.

"_I'm not your _friend_, Mark!"_

His own voice echoed harshly in the confines of his skull, making him grimace and open his eyes to stare dully at the drab white walls. Sighing, the guitarist reached down with chipped-polished nails to grab at anything that might make him a little warmer. The hotel was heated, more so than the loft had ever been, but somehow he still found himself shivering with cold. His hands grasped at the wooly material of a green scarf and he wrapped it around his neck, feeling the tears gather once more in the corners of his eyes.

Mark was probably back at home surrounded by their friends and already moving on. Forgetting him. He had Collins, he had Mimi and Maureen and Joanne, his camera… He'd be fine. He didn't need Roger nearly as much as he thought he did. He didn't _love_ Roger as much as he thought he did. Mark was a trooper- he'd get over it, go to Life Support, get his test results and move on with his life. Make a movie. He was going to be perfectly fine.

The question was- would Roger?

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Mark was doing a lot better than he had hoped. Of course, that could have been because no one would ever leave him alone.

"Marky. Mark. Mark. C'mon, Cohen, sit up and talk to us huh?" Collins was insistently poking him in the arm, grinning from ear to ear. Whether or not he was high was an excellent question, but not one that Mark had the energy to ask. He was lodged between Collins and a sulky Maureen on his own crappy couch, clutching his camera so tightly in his lap that he was a little afraid it might break, and the only thing he could do was cast Collins a withering glance and shake his head.

The black man frowned and jabbed him again, and his face contorted in a wince. For some reason, the past few weeks had been awful- he was bruising like a grape, and even Collins' friendly nudges were painful. The results weren't in quite yet, but they would be coming any day, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew the dreaded results.

Two months Roger had been gone, and the cracks were beginning to show.

"Maaaaark."

"I don't have anything to say." His voice was painfully meek, and he winced and cleared his throat before continuing. "Sorry… I-"

The phone rings and everyone stops to look towards it warily. Lately, none of the calls have been good- and none of them have been the one Mark wanted, either. Every time the phone rang he was further disappointed when, instead of Roger, it was-

"Hi, Cindy," Collins said, cradling the phone to his ear and smiling a little as he stared into space. "Mark's right- clinic?"

"Give me that!" Mark scrambled over Maureen so fast he let his camera fall to the ground and was briefly distraught over the crack he heard on impact- but now wasn't the time! He couldn't be concerned over his camera whether it was his baby or not. This could be one of the calls he had been waiting for…

"Hello?" Paralyzed with fear, he knew that his knuckles were white but he couldn't care less as he clutched the phone like it was his only lifeline. He waited in breathless anticipation for the voice on the other end to say something, anything at all. He had to know. Had to, had to, had to. "This is Mark Cohen."

"Mister Cohen! Hello," replied a woman's voice warmly. He recognized it- it was the nurse from the clinic. This was it. The moment of truth… Awkwardly unable to reposition himself he remained half in Maureen's lap, breathing shallowly and trying to calm the roaring of blood in his ears. "Your results are in. The ones from the HIV test that you took a few months back?"

"Yes?" There was nothing else to say and he knew it sounded terribly squeaky, but he couldn't help being scared. The filmmaker had already lost his best friend, and now he was going to find out if he was losing his well-being as well. "So-"

"We'd like you to come down to the clinic as soon as possible to retrieve them." Was it just him, or did she sound a little bit sympathetic? Did that mean- no. He had to think positively. Weakly, Mark nodded and then belatedly realized that she couldn't see him.

"That's fine. I'll be right down."

"I'll see you then. Have a nice day, Mr. Cohen."

Trembling near-violently, he handed the phone back to Collins to put on the receiver, feeling nauseous. The other members of the group were staring at him in confusion and he remembered that they didn't, with the exception of Collins, know anything about his predicament. If Mark Cohen couldn't keep a secret then nobody could. But, he supposed, it was time to tell them the truth of the matter…

"Um- Mo? Col?" he mumbled, staring down at the dusty wooden floor and snatching his camera back up, stroking it like it was his own child. He needed all of the comfort he could get right now. "I have to um- I-" At a loss for words, he trailed off and closed his eyes.

"What's wrong pookie?" Maureen attempted to force his chin up with her hands, a look of concern pooled in her brown eyes. A moment ago she had been totally preoccupied by her most recent fight with Joanne, who was still at work, but Mark was her first priority. He smiled inwardly at that, glad to know he had at least one friend that wouldn't abandon him.

"I have to go down to the clinic. You don't have to come."

"Why? Sup, white boy?" Collins was similarly worried, shifting closer and slinging an arm around Mark's shoulders. It only made the position more uncomfortable but he appreciated it nonetheless. "Nothing bad, I hope?"

"Ah… Well. I don't know… Guys? I didn't tell you why Roger really left…"

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

"One song, glory…"

Hot water was supposed to make everything seem better, right? Roger stood stock still as it beat on his back, his neck, and he had to admit that it was a tiny bit relaxing. But the fact remained that he didn't know what the fuck he was going to do next.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he brushed a few dripping strands of bleached hair back and vaguely remembered that he meant to get it cut sometime soon. He wondered what his band mates were doing, all the way back in the city- actually, that was a lie. He wondered what MARK was doing all the way back in the city and he band mates were only a footnote. _Damn it Roger, you're a hopeless son of a bitch._

With a sigh, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the questionable dark stain in the corner of the white porcelain tub and crooning the next words. "One song, before I go…" A year ago, two, these words would have been a warm-up to his next brainstorming session. He might have come up with another song or ten and come out on the other side exhausted but satisfied. Now, they felt empty. "One song…. No."

Angrily, he grabbed at the bar of soap and squeezed it into a twisted shape. When he looked down at his creation he was pleased to see the shape of his fingers squished into it. Maybe the next person would see them and wonder.

Washing himself seemed pointless nowadays, but Roger didn't want to be the gross dirty guy and so he started to lather the mangled soap into his skin, chewing his lip absently as he did so. His mind was still spinning, spinning, images of Mark's smile and the glint on his glasses in the light flying past like a hurricane of memories. Should he write Mark a song? It had worked before, with other girls…

He really had to stop thinking of Mark that way.

_Okay, Roger, you're digging yourself deeper. Stop... Stop… Damn it, FUCKING STOP!_

No. He wouldn't write him a song. Not Mark. Mark wasn't some stripper downstairs or a groupie at a club. Mark was- was HIS. His Mark. He liked the sound of that. And HIS Mark didn't need a cheesy love song. He needed…

He needed an apology.

Roger opened his eyes, pausing in his lathering, and without even noticing the mold growing in the corner he smiled.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

On a park bench, Mark sat clenching his fists so tightly around a single white sheet of paper that it nearly ripped. It was glossy and printed with neat black letters.

**Patient Cohen, Mark**

**HIV status: +**

The world seemed to be swaying around him- he knew he was on land, but it felt as though he was rocking on the ocean waves. And Mark got seasick easily. No matter how hard he stared, the letters were still there- stark, black and white contrast. No gray area. No uncertainty. There it was.

That little black plus mark would haunt him for the rest of his life.

ROGER would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Mark stopped, closing his eyes and smiling bitterly. Life. The rest of his life… How long was that, exactly? Not very. Maybe ten years more.

The funny thing was, Mark didn't care about the disease, or the lifespan. He would be happy to drop dead right there on the bench if it weren't for one thing. Roger. He was the one who had passed the death sentence to him, but he wasn't there for the unveiling. Where was he? Somewhere far away, he imagined. San Francisco, maybe, or Los Angeles. Roger had always wanted to move someplace sunnier. Now he had his opportunity. He could go wherever he wanted.

But Mark couldn't go anywhere. Not while they were still fighting.

Forcing himself to release his vice grip, he watched in morbid fascination as the paper fluttered to the ground. Far away, it looked so innocent- not like a death sentence at all. It could be anything. A child's drawing. A receipt.

Collins and Maureen were probably frantic by now. He hadn't let them come, in the end. He was nervous enough without their added anxiety on his shoulders- and, secretly, he didn't trust them not to hate Roger if it came out positive. Roger may have run off and left him with some of his baggage, but at least he left SOMETHING this time. Mark couldn't help but love him for it….

Wait.

Love?

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Roger Davis was scribbling furiously on the reciept for a candy bar he'd eaten earlier. Around him, everyone was uncomfrotably silent, as they tended to be on city busses. Unaware, he paused, snorted and shook his head before beginning again.

_Dear Mark…_


	14. A Poet Returns

**A/N: There's only this chapter and the next left, so expect it all to wrap up soon… Thank you guys for sticking around so long. It's been nearly an entire year since I first posted this story and you've all been amazing. So here's to one last hurrah before the finale. Reviews, please! And thanks to DJ for letting me know there are anonymous people out there following my story and correcting me when I screwed up the post.**

Disclaimer: RENT is something that I couldn't even pay if I had my own loft. I has no jobs and therefore no monies. So no- I don't own it. :(

**Chapter Fourteen: A Poet Returns**

_Dear Mark…_

_I feel like such an asswipe. Really, man, I'm a huge dick- no pun intended. I mean, unless YOU think so, then it's a different story._

_All joking aside, though._

_I hope you know I left to keep you safe. Not because I wanted to. But seriously. If you're negative- I like to think optimistically when I can- then I'm not gonna risk your life for some stupid makeout session. Come on. You're smarter than that, Mark. You have a lot of life left to live._

_Anyways, I'm stopping by just to make sure you know that I still love you wherever I am. (I won't tell you because I don't trust your stupid ass not to come and try to find me.)_

_Actually, I'm thinking of you all the time. It's driving me nuts. I miss everyone but especially you. It sucks where I am right now. I think I really just wanted an excuse to come check on you… and see the city again._

_I hope that you're doing okay. Finish another movie and move on, alright? Don't waste your time on me. I'm far away by now and I don't intend to come back unless I have no choice._

_Say hi to Collins for me, and tell Jason and Mimi I wish them a happy life together. Mo and Jo, too._

_You can have any eyeliner that I left behind. You actually looked kind of cute with it on._

_I take back anything I said about dating Travis. DON'T DATE TRAVIS. Don't even go near him, he's a sick fuck and all he wants to do is tie you up and fuck you- and I know it might SOUND good to you but trust me. No. I don't want you near him. That's not what I call keeping safe._

_Stay out of alleys, too. I'm not around to kick people's asses for you anymore._

_I'm running out of room but that's probably for the best. I love you Marky. I hope you don't hate me for this- but then again, it might be best if you did._

_Roger_

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

The bus jerked to a stop and Roger nearly fell out of his seat onto the muddy, slushy floor. He grunted at the painful angle this had left him in and blearily cracked his eyes open.

Life in Boston hadn't been much, and now that he was back in New York Roger doubted he would ever be able to leave again. He'd predicted as much- that's why he'd checked out of the hotel with a second thought, collecting all of his shit and hopping on the nearest bus to the Big Apple. Roger may have been impulsive as all fuck but at least he knew that about himself. Cracking his neck, the guitarist hoisted his guitar and his duffel bag up and stumbled out of the worn seat, slipping a little and catching himself on the back of the next seat, disturbing an old woman and what looked to be her grandchild. They gave him baleful, sleep-deprived looks and he smiled a little at his own innate talent in being able to sleep on any semi-flat surface.

The rocker got off of the bus and felt an overwhelming sense of homecoming as his sneaker hit the cracked gray pavement for the first time in two months. He stood for a moment on the street corner and looked around, observing everything from the way the old pieces of chewed gum made a rainbow of dots across the span of the concrete and the pinkish tint to the New York skyline at dawn. His heart seemed to lift in his chest, lungs filling with New York air and exhaling in a gust that smelled just like he remembered it.

Fuck it. He was home.

Striding down the sidewalk, Roger licked his lips and tried to kick the craving for a cigarette. New York always made him want to smoke, but that probably had something to do with the fact that he'd picked up the habit on his first night there. His mind, still half-asleep, concocted plans that later wouldn't seem like such good ideas but for now seemed fantastic.

Okay- so he couldn't stay in the loft anymore. And he couldn't tell Mark where he was… Or let him know that he was there at all. Leaving him a letter seemed like it might be defeating that purpose. But Roger couldn't control his impulses any more than he could control Mark's, and this was something he had to do.

But he could get his own apartment… He wouldn't even have to go that far. The fog was slowly lifting, but the more he thought about it the better it seemed, and the grin was growing on his face. (and probably making passerby nervous with its width.) Avenue B wasn't the only place in the city with apartments for rent, and the Civilians weren't the only band he could be a part of.

If he started looking now, he might be able to blow some of his extra time until Mark would conceivably be out of the house…

The receipt with his letter scrawled across it burned a hole through his pocket, making him squirm with guilt and anticipation. The thought of bumping into Mark did as well, but he was doing his best not to think of that. His feet carried him on the familiar path through the city towards his favorite street.

Avenue B had better watch out, because the last remaining member of the Well-Hungarians was back for good.

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"… And so anyways, Maria's all moved out and our parents are FURIOUS."

Mark tried his very best not to look bored, leaning on his elbows on the table and blankly staring out of the window to his left. His chin rested on his hands, fingers tugging absently on strands of his ginger-blonde hair. Mimi's family drama was the last thing he wanted to hear about right now. Then again, most things were the last thing he wanted to hear about- with the exception of Roger, who was the first. If Roger had happened to pass outside the windows of the Life Café right now, Mark would have been out of their booth and flying out the door in four seconds flat.

Unfortunately, he was trapped where he was. Mimi wasn't letting him go anywhere. It was her shift; Collins had taken his yesterday after Mark had first broken the news to everyone, and from what he gathered tomorrow Joanne would be stopping by. To be honest, the filmmaker wished that everyone would just back up and give him some space. All of his friends seemed to think that he couldn't deal with the news of his sickness by himself. Granted, it was big news- but the way they were treating him, like everyone used to treat Roger during the first irritable stages of his withdrawal, was starting to get on his nerves.

No wonder Roger had acted up so much. Who liked being pitied all the time? Who liked those looks full of passionate sympathy and that subtle understanding that he was still unable to feel through his numbing shock? His roommate hadn't had exactly the right idea, lashing out at everyone and anyone around him, but it was certainly what Mark felt like doing right then.

The only good thing about this noon luncheon with Mimi was the fact that Jason hadn't tagged along. It was still odd seeing the Latino with his friend, nuzzling and cooing in that sickeningly sweet new-couple fashion. Budding romance was, at the moment, something that Mark couldn't quite stomach.

"Yeah?" he murmured. His voice sounded slightly dull and he knew it- the problem was that he didn't care. He was still stuck on the epiphany that he'd had the day before. Mimi didn't know anything about _that_, but she seemed to make her own assumptions and instead of bothering him she just gave him another of those painfully understanding looks. The two of them were silent for a moment and the Latina twirled her fork in her pasta, biting her lip and watching Mark think.

Internally conflicted, Mark's head lowered and his eyes fell shut wearily. Roger weighed on his mind like a plague he'd never be rid of. Logically, he should have been pissed. Fuming. ANGRY. But it took so much to make Mark angry- and right now the best he could muster was sad.

Love Roger? It made sense, at least. He couldn't imagine ever working up the courage to say it out loud, even if he ever saw Roger again- hell, maybe this was best. They weren't going anywhere. Roger might be bi and all, but he was Mark Cohen. He wasn't exactly the catch of the day. Awkward, stuttering, small and attached to his camera. Yeah. How attractive. If Roger had stuck around he might never have realized it, but even so it would have hurt. To see him with Cherry, to see him with ANY other girl- or guy, if he ever dated one- would have broken Mark's heart.

Roger had already done that pretty thoroughly by leaving, but at least the awful anticipation was gone. Mark liked to look at it like this: at least now the crack in his heart went all the way through instead of lingering painfully on the surface.

He should pay more attention to Mimi. His job was to make sure that his friends were happy, but he couldn't even do that lately. All they did was worry over him. Worrying is stressing and stress causes all kinds of illnesses and Mark ought not to be giving his friends any more illnesses than they already have.

Speaking of which…

"Hey- Meems, I've got to run… AZT." Smiling in a way that didn't really reach his eyes, Mark stood, secretly grateful that he wouldn't have to sit through the rest of their stinted conversation. Mimi watched helplessly with big brown eyes as he left, shoulders slumping.

There really was nothing any of them could do for him now.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Roger cursed under his breath as he rummaged in his pocket, fingering the hole he'd found in the bottom. So much for the tape he'd bought earlier that day… What a waste of money. He glanced up again at the solid metal door of the loft in dismay, wishing there was at least a crack between the bottom of it and the floor that he could slip the letter into.

"Alright…" he muttered to himself, slipping off his shoe and reaching inside for the key he'd been carrying all this time. He'd hoped that it wouldn't come to this. Returning to the city was risky enough- returning to the loft? He might end up moving back in. That was, if Mark would have him… But no! He couldn't start thinking like that. Coming back NOW was out of the question. He turned the key in the lock and bit his lip at the familiar grinding click, giving it a mighty shove and watching as it swung inwards.

It was exactly as he'd left it. Roger felt himself tear up a little at the overwhelming homesickness, swallowing a lump in his throat. This was home… Not a stupid hotel in Boston. Not the stupid hotel in New York he'd checked into this morning. No. THIS. Avenue B was his home. THIS apartment was his home. Damn Mark for being so innocent, for being so lovable, for being so god damn negative and for letting Roger fuck him up.

Coming back wasn't an option, but Roger always wanted what he knew he couldn't have.

He took a wooden step forward and turned his head slowly, breathing in the scent that was so distinctly Mark. Mint and tea and aftershave. Mimi's perfume lingered in the air as well, and he stifled the red jealousy welling up from the yawning abyss in his heart. He _wanted_ Mark to be happy, taken care of, but he couldn't help wishing that it was him.

The loft was slightly tidier than it had been two months ago without Roger to mess it all up every time Mark made some attempt at cleaning. It was also rather cold, but that was only to be expected in mid-January. In fact, it almost seemed nice compared to what it usually was- Roger looked upwards and sure enough, the hole in the roof had been patched up. He smiled sadly and continued inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Maybe… Maybe he could stay a little longer. Maybe take some of his other clothes with him and… Just sit around. Remember how it used to be. The temptation was too strong to overcome. Roger flopped down onto the couch without much ceremony, making a content grunt at the uncomfortable duct-tape surface of the rickety piece of furniture. Oh, yeah. He was home. The majority of him was rejoicing, every nerve alive with excited electricity. Only one small part of him, buried beneath the layers of weakness, protested.

_And what about Mark? He'll know you've been here. He'll look for you. Why give him hope like that?_

Roger frowned and mentally swatted that part of him away, pushing down his growing misgivings as he held the receipt-letter in his hands, crinkling it over and over in his anxiety. Mark would be fine. For all he knew, the filmmaker had already gone out looking for him. It sounded like a very Markish thing to do, after all.

_What about his test results?_

_What if he's positive?_

Blanching at the thought, Roger stood abruptly and dusted himself off, movements jerky. He was an idiot. He had to leave, fast- before Mark came home and shattered his perfect illusion.

Roger wanted to believe he'd kept his friend safe. But what if he'd failed even in that simple endeavor? What excuse did he have then?

Making up his mind, Roger regretfully crumpled the note in his hand, pacing towards the door.

A key turned in the lock.

And then he heard his voice.

MRMRMRMRMRMMRMRMRMRMR

"What the-" Mark frowned uneasily, twisting the key again. He was certain he'd locked the door before he left- he'd never failed to do so before- and yet here it was, unlocked. The loft had been left defenseless all morning. Dreading what he might find when he opened the door, the filmmaker took a deep breath and pushed it inwards.

Nothing had changed. It was all as he'd left it. He breathed a loud sigh of relief, letting his shoulders slump and a small smile find its way onto his face. He should have known. What did one bohemian kid without a job have that was valuable enough to steal? Snorting at his own foolish suspicions, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, locking it decisively. Spinning around, he made for the kitchen-

And ran smack into Roger Davis.

"OOF." Bouncing off of his former roommate's chest, Mark's back hit the door. There was a frozen moment of slow recognition, of choked noises and heavy breathing and flared nostrils, and the two stared warily at each other in much the same way that they had that day in the hall two months ago, just before Roger had left.

After a long moment, Roger raised one hand in a feeble wave. "Hey." His voice cracked and he grimaced, looking down and clearing his throat.

Mark? He couldn't say anything at all. He couldn't find the words. Months of dreadful anticipation, of mornings waking up and discovering that no, it hadn't just been a nightmare, that Roger was really gone… Months to grieve the loss of his best friend and to worry worry worry over what he might have done wrong, to regret every little decision he'd made, every imperfection in his actions and his speech and even his appearance, even his tolerance, even that one amazing night that he hadn't ever thought he'd regret, not in a million years…

Standing before him was the object of his every dream and he couldn't even talk.

Clearly uncomfortable with the silence, Roger squirmed and chewed on his lip, backing away just slightly. "Um- Mark look-"

That was what broke him. Lunging forward in a surge of anger he hadn't even known he'd possessed, Mark slammed his curled fist into Roger's sternum, knocking the breath right out of him and sending him reeling backwards.

"Y-you ASSHOLE." His own words startled him, but he managed to keep his hands from flying to his mouth. Instead, he held his ground, staring fumingly at the wheezing guitarist before him. Disregard the stutter- Mark Cohen was standing up for himself. And against his best friend to boot.

Stepping forward, driving Roger a step back, he poked him less-than-gently in the chest with a bony index finger and bared his teeth. "I can't believe you- I can't believe you have the BALLS to come back right now, Davis. Why the fuck are you here?"

_Why didn't you get here sooner?_

_Why did you leave?_

_Why?_

The unspoken questions rang in the echo of his angry words, but there was no way he could swallow them back now. Roger was dumbstruck. Still catching his breath, eyes wide at the shock that his geeky little friend had actually _hit_ him, he stared at Mark and practically drank in his presence.

Mark Mark Mark…

Caution flying right out of his mind he found himself moving closer, and now Mark was back against the wall again. It was like a tug of war with their willpower, their motives- Roger had no idea what he was doing until their lips were pressed gently together, still staring into each other's eyes. When his hands had come up to cup Mark's face he had no idea, but there they were, feeling the fine stubble on his chin and the baby smooth skin beneath.

Mark.

Here was Mark. And here was Roger. MarkandRoger. Two inseparable men finally reunited by some random twist of fate, or perhaps Roger's faulty willpower.

But for Mark, that was the last straw.

All of a sudden, Roger found himself being pushed back with the force of a bull, knocked right onto his ass on the floor. Over him, Mark wiped his mouth furiously on his sleeve, secretly savoring that single sweet moment before he remembered how angry he was, and how confused. "Y-y-you can't- you can't just do that!" Somehow, it was much less amusing than heartbreaking to hear Mark's voice crack now like a pre-pubescent male. "You can't- No! I can't just let you _do_ that! You're not allowed to leave and come back just when I'm starting to give up hope you never will!"

Dead silence. The cleaner-than-usual loft seemed to hold it's breath- even the traffic outside was irrelevant. Roger, braced on his elbows on the wooden floor, had nothing to say to that so Mark just kept talking. His hands flew about in a desperate attempt to convey his meaning, making a million gestures without real translations. Pure emotion seemed to pour off of him, and Roger finally understood the meaning of getting something off one's chest.

"I- I don't- I can't- ROGER!" Wincing at the sound of his name, Roger recoiled but kept his eyes trained on his bespectacled friend, who was only becoming more coherent by the minute. "Asshole. You're just- Mimi's right, I can't just let you come back- Why do you think it's _okay_, Roger? What made you think that it was okay to just waltz back into my life like everything is fucking NORMAL? _What gives you the right to act like that?_" He paused for breath, and then nearly sobbed, "It's not _normal_! Everything's _changed_!"

"Mark…" he heard himself begin slowly, and he was mildly curious as to what exactly he could say. He sure as hell didn't have a clue, but Roger's mouth liked to run without him. "Mark, look- please." Slowly, he sat up into a kneeling position and then heaved himself to his feet, ignoring the ache beginning in his chest where Mark had punched him. "I didn't want to-"

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"AZT break." Mark muttered under his breath. His blue eyes wouldn't meet Roger's horrified greens, cast downward as he marched to the kitchen and uncapped the bottle that had been sitting there for the past day. The faucet was turned on and shut off, half a glass of water and a tiny pill swigged, and he finally, guardedly, raised his eyes to observe his friend's reaction.

Roger looked devastated.

All of that work, all of that miserable time, and for what? To make both of them hurt? To deny them both what they wanted? Roger knew he could be a bit of a masochist but this really took the cake. Bottom having dropped out of his stomach, it was his turn to stutter.

"I- I-"

"And you know," Mark interrupted calmly, anger having drained out of him through the soles of his feet. "I'm not even mad. No-" he warned as Roger opened his mouth to protest. "No. I'm not even mad at you for _that_." There was a pregnant pause. "… You know what I am mad about?"

"What?" Roger asked, dreading the answer. His voice was low, gravelly, and he was watching Mark with guilt and horror. The filmmaker gave him a wry half-smile.

"I'm not mad because you infected me. I'm mad-" Here he stepped forward, striding towards Roger who seemed rooted to the spot, trembling minutely. "because you didn't call."

Somehow they were kissing again, and Roger didn't really care why anymore. Mark's addictive touch sent fire racing through his veins, and he greedily pressed closer, hands firmly placed on Mark's waist, Mark's hands in his hair, tugging urgently. Tongues slipped past chapped lips and teeth clacked. It was messy and desperate and neither of them could figure out where all of this emotion was coming from. Maybe it was just being generated in the negative space between their bodies…

Mark broke away panting, licking his lips and feeling his heart race furiously. He tried his best not to think about the irreparable damage he was doing to their friendship. Roger beat him to the punch.

"I love you."

"I think I love you."

Almost at the same time, their eyes snapped to each other's and they stared for a long moment. Their heartbeats seemed to sync themselves. Then-

The magnetic force returned.

That tangled embrace.

A pair of bohemians stumbling back down the hall, small whimpers and groans and other desperate noises, a red flush rising on their respective skins.

Two months ago this all ended in disaster.

But now? Now it was fucked-up-perfect.


	15. The Leap

**A/N: The final chapter is finally here… The day has come, my friends: the saddest and happiest day in an author's career. It's been almost an entire year since I began this piece of fanfiction and I can't even believe how much I've grown as a person or as an author since the start. All of you have helped me on my way. All of your reviews have been cherished and have motivated me. A lot of you have become my best friends in the world. I'd like to dedicate this fic to five of my reviewers. First, to Elizabeth, Vikki, Daelen and Jessica. You've all been amazing. Then to Bfly-Ronaldita for being a faithful reader and reviewer and for sticking with me through all of Roger's bullshit. Thank you all so much! And enjoy the last chapter!**

Disclaimer: _RENT, despite the year that's passed since I first said this to you, is still not mine._

**Chapter Fifteen: The Leap**

On January twenty-fifth, ten a.m. Eastern Standard Time, a young Latina ascended the metal staircase to her blonde friend's apartment as quietly as she could in three-inch heeled boots.

That night it had snowed- or rather, snow_stormed_. And Mimi had a feeling that she would be needing the extra inches to keep her feet warm and dry.

In any case, she had to hurry. She rapped her knuckles smartly on the door, calling, "Mark! Come on Mark, Life Support's starting and we're going to be late!" She didn't have to add the 'again'. Mark knew as well as she did that their punctuality had suffered as of late. Paul always gave them the same understanding half-smile as she dragged the filmmaker in half an hour after starting time and plopped down in her seat, but she hated to think she was disappointing the kindly older gentleman. "Mark!"

The door swung inwards after a moment to reveal a ruffled looking albino-pale filmmaker, blonde hair mussed and glasses lopsided on the bridge of his nose. He yawned and smiled at her, practically glowing. "Hey, Meems. I'll be right out." Turning, he murmured something that she couldn't hear in what was almost a suggestive tone and made a come hither gesture with his index finger. A grumble that certainly wasn't Mark's issued from the loft, but Mimi didn't have time to be alarmed because Mark was already pulling the stranger into view.

"Ro-" she squeaked, eyes so wide they were in danger of popping out of her skull. He smiled, looking somewhat uncomfortable or maybe just cold standing before her in his ratty old boxers, Mark practically wrapped around his arm.

"Hey, Mimi…" He shifted and looked to Mark pleadingly and yeah, he was definitely uncomfortable. "I, uh- I'll just go change… if you want me to come-"

"Oh, you're coming." Mark's tone left no room for argument. With a sigh, Roger nodded and trudged out of sight, presumably to the bedroom… whose, she didn't know.

It was only then that she realized what Mark's similar state of undress meant.

"YOU!" she gasped. "You two! Oh my God, Mark! Tell me everything!" She grabbed at his skinny arms with her perfectly manicured mocha hands and he laughed, shaking his head and backing away slightly.

"I'll tell you all about it later… He's back." Blue eyes shining, Mark looked every inch head over heels. His expression made her wonder if his feet were even touching the ground, and she had to resist the strong urge to look down and check. "He's BACK."

Pushing back the anger that had been rising up in her at Roger's sudden reappearance, and his abandonment, Mimi smiled genuinely back at her friend and reached to squeeze his hand. "I know, baby," she said, nodding back to the hallway. "Maybe you should go get dressed too. It's chilly."

"Alright- I'll just be a minute."

Like a giddy schoolboy, Mark pranced back into the loft and into his room to clothe himself. Mimi leaned against the frame to wait.

Despite herself, the smile was impossible to wipe from her face.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

"Roger?"

"Roger?

"ROGER!"

The aforementioned guitarist winced and shrunk down into Mark as though the smaller man could protect him. His hair, he had complained as Mimi and Mark had dragged him out of the loft, wasn't perfect and his eyeliner unapplied but nevertheless here he was.

Life Support. He hadn't been to the meetings in months, even before he had left, and he found himself relieved to see most of the same faces smiling back at him, weary but alive. Apparently none of them had been told about his up-and-leaving, because no one was booing and hissing as he'd expected. Even Mimi had yet to rip his head off. Was everyone really so unaffected by his absence? Before he could overthink it anymore, Roger found himself pulled down into a chair beside Mark. It was the first time, he vaguely realized, that he'd seen Mark actually _in_ the circle of the sick people and it hit him again that his friend was positive. Another wave of sadness began to swell towards him and Mark seemed to sense it because he frowned and shook his head minutely, tightening his grip on Roger's hand.

"_No day but today_," he mouthed, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge him. Roger had to smile at that. He nodded, letting it go for the moment, and turned his attention back to the meeting.

Paul started off with an introduction, as usual, and then they went around the circle spouting off names and ages and other such information. Roger had begun to zone out when he heard a familiar voice- another that he hadn't heard in months.

"Tom Collins. Friends call me Collins."

Snapping his attention to the tall black man a couple of seats away, Roger's green eyes lit up. Beside him he could almost feel Mark's smile radiating into the open air. "Roger Davis," he said when it came to be his turn. His head felt light in the most pleasant of ways. Everything was coming together now- Mark loved him, they didn't have to worry anymore, and all of their friends were still together. The darker pair of eyes met his and they weren't even hostile. He wanted to sing.

Maybe later he would. Karaoke night at the Life Café…

He recalled his post-coital conversation late that night with Mark, the blonde man curled up to his chest, sleepy and content. It had been a long talk and there was more than one tearful moment, more than one little spat, but everything had worked out. It had to. You weren't best friends for that many years, roommates for that many years, without that unbreakable bond forming.

It would take time to rebuild Mark's trust. He knew that. But he also knew that Mark loved him and he loved Mark and if it was the last thing he did, he was going to make sure Mark always knew it too. Trust? He could do that. Love? He could _certainly_ do that.

The meeting went smoothly, even with Mark's stuttering introduction and his saddening news. (which earned him more than a few empathetic glances and Roger a couple of disapproving looks) All too soon it was over. Roger couldn't remember another Life Support meeting that had ever gone so quickly for him, but maybe it was just Mark's hand clutching his the entire time, firm, as if he never planned on letting go again.

Not that Roger would object.

When the chairs were put away and the goodbyes were exchanged, Roger turned and found himself enveloped in one of Collins' famous suffocating bear hugs. "Hey- man-" he choked, laughing as much as he could in such a restricting position. Behind him, Mark was sniggering and Mimi was watching in amusement, dark eyes still slightly wary.

"Welcome home, you little bitch!" The anarchist chuckled deeply, squeezing him tighter and then releasing him mercifully. Stumbling back, Roger gasped for air, face a beacon of crimson, but he was laughing too. The filmmaker drew him closer and Roger instinctively leaned into his touch, letting Mark wrap his arms around his waist and turning his head slightly to meet him halfway for a light kiss, eyes falling shut. The dim, silent community center faded away for a moment as he absorbed the warmth of Mark's presence, still rejoicing in the face that he was really _back_-

"Ahem." Collins coughed into his fist, far more amused than he had any right to be. Mimi had been whispering in his ear the situation as she knew it, and although he'd been slightly skeptical he could see that she was right. Those boys loved each other. He'd known it to begin with, of course- that prediction he'd made years ago had proved correct at last and he wasn't surprised. They were cute, wrapped around each other and oblivious to their surroundings. He hated to interrupt them, but now wasn't the time for them to be having what he was sure was their fifteenth or so make out session since Roger had returned.

"Boys," he tried again, a little more commanding. Mimi giggled, unable to look away from their kissing friends, and Roger broke away with a petulant frown. "Hn?" he grunted, but the philosopher just gestured to the door pointedly, indicating that they should leave.

"Come on," Mark drawled, still flushed and beaming. Once again he tugged Roger along as the group moved towards the outside. Just as they exited into the frosty New York afternoon, sun watery above them reflecting off of the dirty slush in the gutters and on the stoop, an ear-piercing shriek was heard and they stopped in their tracks, alarmed. The source became clear all too soon as an over-excited Maureen came barreling towards them with Joanne in tow, squealing and fixated on Mark and Roger's clasped hands.

"MARKY! MARKY OH MY GOSH! MARKY LOOK! ROGER IS BACK!"

"Judging by the size of that hickey, I think he knows," Joanne commented drily, digging her heels in to keep her girlfriend from flinging herself at the two men. She gave Mark a smile and then turned to Roger, looking a tad more distrustful. "And you-" She marched up to him and tugged him down to her level by the collar, narrowing her eyes. "Take care of him. Right. I'm not letting you fuck up like that again, you got it?"

"Hey, hey," Mark protested, pulling the guilt-tripped Roger behind him slightly and taking a protective stance. "I can make my own decisions, you know. And threats. It's okay, really…"

Seeming to run out of steam, he just shrugged. In the absence of Jo's restraining hand, Maureen flew at Mark and hugged him in celebration, talking at top speed about how happy she was for him and how great this was to have everyone back together… Roger tuned out eventually, glancing around, and he met Mimi's eyes. She was relaxed, not angry, and even offered a small smile. He found himself grinning back.

Okay, so he had to earn _everyone's_ trust back. But he could do that, too.

"Who's up for lunch?" He looked up as Collins suddenly spoke, drawing all eyes to him. All around there was nodding and small sounds of agreement. "Alrighty, then, it's on me!" Flashing his teeth, Collins proudly pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket, eliciting cheers and gasps from the group.

"Where did you get that?" Roger exclaimed. None of them had seen a hundred dollar bill in probably years, maybe never- money was tight in Alphabet City. But Collins just grinned smugly.

"Benefits of having a real job, Mr. Musician," he taunted. Roger glowered, but his heart wasn't in it. In the end he shrugged and that was that. Collins waved them all down the street towards the Life in one sweeping motion of his hand and they were off.

"I love you," Mark murmured to him once they were a safe distance behind the others. Unable to stop smiling, Roger slowed and pulled Mark closer, whispering in his ear before continuing.

"I love you too."

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Several exhausting hours later, the boho boys found themselves in bed again. This time all of their clothes were still on and neither of them was speaking, but it still felt intimate. Head on Roger's chest, Mark could hear every one of his steady heart beats, quickening when his hand made its way teasingly up the other's thigh. Roger swatted it halfheartedly away and he gave a throaty laugh.

The party at the Life had been everything he could have imagined for a welcome home party and more. Karaoke night had changed since he'd been there but they had still managed to set up the equipment, much to the other customer's protest, and sing a few rounds of old Well-Hungarians songs from Roger's early musical career. Having Mark beside him in the spotlight on top of the table, clutching the microphone and shouting the familiar words right along with him, had been a magical moment. His heart squeezed with the knowledge that he was going to have this perfect, wonderful man for the rest of his natural life.

Feeling overwhelmed with this sappy romanticism, Roger couldn't help but sighing under his breath, "Iloveyou…"

Mark snorted. "I love you too. And it's the sixtieth time I've said it today. Ever going to get tired of it?" Secretly he was pleased with Roger's clinginess and Romeo-esque words but he wasn't going to jeopardize his masculinity to tell him that. He shifted, feeling a dirty smile slide onto his face as he replaced his hand on the guitarist's jean-clad thigh.

Besides, he wasn't in the mood for romance. He was, however, in the mood for other things.

"Hey!" Roger protested, sitting up and scrambling backwards, nose wrinkled. "Keep it in your pants, Cohen!"

"Roger _Davis_ doesn't want sex?" Mark's eyebrows shot up and disappeared into his hair. Flustered, Roger stammered in an attempt to explain himself.

"I- I do- don't be a dick, Mark. We just- last night- I don't want you to think I came back just for-"

"Oh calm DOWN. God." The filmmaker laughed and popped the button on his own pants, feeling a surge of victory as he felt rather than saw Roger's eyes snap to the front of his corduroys. "What, you think we can't have sex more than once in twenty four hours? What about the bathroom at the Life? You weren't protesting then."

Blushing furiously at the memory, Roger nearly groaned out loud. "Real men don't refuse a blowjob," he mumbled, feeling his good intentions crumble around him at the promise of having Mark beneath him again-

_Or on top of him._

He opened his eyes to see the blue-eyed man gazing at him so intensely that he nearly came right there. "Practice makes perfect," he quoted, and Roger recalled saying that to him so many days ago, before the whole fiasco.

"I'm pretty sure we're already perfect," he said lamely, even as he was shifting closer, growing harder by the second as Mark shimmied out of his pants.

"There's always room for improvement."

Mark leaned forward and captured his lips and that was it. He let go, allowing himself to push his new love onto his back and straddle his hips, beginning once again.

He had to admit it this time- Mark was right. There was no reason that they couldn't build on what they already had. There _was_ always room for improvement…

A low groan issued from one of their throats but neither of them could tell whose.

When they finally kicked the bucket, Mark and Roger were going to be pretty perfect indeed.

**THE END**


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